Dark Night
by JMK758
Summary: Appearances are deceptive as mysterious deaths mount and a deadly plot heralds the outbreak of war.
1. Too Many Revelations

This is my seventh NCIS Mystery, all following one progression. The list was becoming so extensive I moved it to my profile, along with synopses of stories.  
The usual legal disclaimers apply.  
Loving to experiment, I'm trying the addition of generally known or available music. 'Ruth' is composed by Alexander Courage and is available on the Star Trek Album Vol. 3. 'Rockin' Robin' is performed by Bobby Day; 'Tonight I Celebrate My Love For You' is performed by Roberta Flack and Peabo Bryson, 'Lonely Man Theme' is from 'The Incredible Hulk' Television series and is found on many SciFi theme CDs.  
All rights are reserved by the respective artists and copyright holders, but listening to this music could enhance your enjoyment of this story.  
Rating: T or NCis-17. Death, Violence, Intrigue, Mystery, typical days for our agents.

Dark Night  
By: JMK758  
Prologue

Mary Joralemon sits at her workstation in the far right corner of the living room, checkbook beside her keyboard, comparing the stubs with the on-line bank records. It's her responsibility to balance the books, a duty assumed as her husband's absences became more numerous and extended.

She takes great pride and greater care that not a penny goes missing. It might seem odd to her friends to spend a Saturday night so, but she has always believed in fulfilling her responsibilities before she has her fun.

As she works she catches a movement to her right. The tall man, clad in a pair of blue boxers, approaches from the bedroom, his body doing things to her that would have made her blush months ago. He steps beside her and she tries her best to concentrate on finishing her work. There's still more than a dozen records to go before she can move on to Savings.

"Coming to bed?" he asks, bending low beside her, his breath hot against her ear. She feels the tingling all the way down to her toes.

"Soon. I want to finish this."

"You can finish after Mass tomorrow," he coaxes, voice heavy with promise.

Mary shakes her head. "You know I can't sleep until it's finished."

"Who said you were going to sleep?" His left hand slips around the back of her neck and down into the front of her pink negligee. She wiggles on the chair, not wanting to pull away but as his hand cups her, his thumb teases her nipple with light strokes. He's doing absolutely terrible things to her.

"I can't concentrate," she 'complains' with a smile.

"Good." His fingertips continue to stroke her nipple, making her gasp and wiggle in her seat. She feels it all the way down to her toes, tingling sensations she doesn't want to give in to - yet. "You're not wearing panties." His whisper is hot in her ear.

"I want to play too," she tells him. He reaches with his other hand but she presses her thighs together tightly. "Five minutes, Mark," she pleads as his fingertips continue stroking her hardened nub, "_please_."

"You can hold out five minutes?" he teases her with voice and fingers.

"Keep this up, it'll be ten!" She doesn't _want_ it to be ten.

He withdraws and straightens up. "Okay."

She reaches back, palm up and her fingers slip into the opening of his boxers, cupping what she finds.

"Now who's distracting?"

"You're not distracted, you're desperate." She gives him a loving squeeze. "Four minutes, I _promise_."

"I'll hold you to that."

"You'll_ hold_ a lot more than that," she assures him, lets go and tries to return to her work. If she hurries, she can get through in the promised four minutes. He turns, leaves and she loses time because she can't tear her eyes off him. She's distracted from this promising vision when the phone beside her monitor rings. With a sigh she picks it up. If it's a telemarketer, she'll make quick work of him. "Hello?" Nothing. "Hel_lo_?"

Giving up, she hangs up the phone and returns her attention to the computer. She makes a series of on-line transactions, checks that everything is correct, signs off and shuts down the computer. It had taken more than the promised time, but she knows Mark will wait. For what she has for him, he'd wait an eternity.

xx

She steps silently into the bedroom on bare feet and finds her husband feigning sleep in the queen size bed to her right. His boxers are gone but she knows he's not asleep. His preparation is quite evident, doing a wonderful imitation of a flagpole. She smiles, knowing he'll be 'wide awake' very quickly.

Crossing the room, she goes to a dresser drawer, slides it out quietly and removes something from it. She approaches the bed to the right side near the sliding closet door, a three foot space she normally lays closest to, stands beside her 'sleeping' husband. "Mark?" she whispers his name enticingly.

"It's been nineteen minutes," he says, not turning to her nor opening his eyes. "I'm asleep."

"I've got something really _special _for you," she tells him, her voice dripping with honeyed promise, "something you're just not going to believe."

He smiles, turns his head on the pillow. "What?" he asks, opening his eyes. When he sees what's in her hands his eyes grow wide, his face reflecting his disbelief. The blast fills the room. A hole appears in the center of his forehead and the bloody back-spray covers Mary. His body gives one convulsive shake from the impact and then he's still.

The report was deafening, the next reverberates through the room as she pulls the trigger again. Another hole appears beside the first, a wash of blood from the back of his head increases the size of the puddle that covers the pillow. He doesn't move this time despite what the impact of the bullet does to his brain.

Mary hates the deafening noise, the explosions certain to disturb the neighbors, but she pulls the trigger a third time. The noise is so loud she can no longer hear anything as the top of Mark Joralemon's head bursts apart.

'At least', Mary thinks as she turns the gun around and inserts her thumbs together through the trigger guard, 'this one will be quieter, won't disturb anybody.' She's always a stickler for keeping the noise down, always trying to be a good neighbor.

Opening her mouth, she puts the hot barrel of the gun between her lips, cautious not to burn herself. Angling the gun upward, the burn of the metal no worse than she had known from her morning coffee, she pushes the trigger.

Mary can't say if the noise does disturb the neighbors. She never hears it.

Chapter One  
Too Many Revelations

Timothy McGee sits in his car four blocks from St. Mary the Virgin Episcopal Church. At his friend's insistence he hasn't waited to pick her up at 'work' following his meeting her for the Mass. Instead he does so a half-hour later and a discreet distance away. Now he waits patiently, his thoughts broken at the sudden opening of the passenger door.

Siobhan O'Mallory gets into the car and the first thing Tim sees is a very generous expanse of bare tanned legs below _short_ blue denim. He can't break his stare as she closes her door and draws her belt on.

"Do you prefer me in uniform?" she asks, her melodious Irish brogue as strong as he'd ever known, her smile carried in her tone.

He breaks away with a guilty start, realizing he'd missed several moments of silence. She's so immensely different than he'd seen her only half an hour ago that she's almost a different person. "_No_! No, I'm sor - that is I - I didn't mean - I wasn't stare...."

She laughs softly, tries to convey that she's not offended by his stare. Far from it. "Timmy, it's all right, I'm legal."

Her words only disconcert him more, something she'd been well aware would happen. Her 'uniform', which he is far more used to, is a summer variant skirt - which goes discreetly past her knees - instead of black pants and a pale blue short sleeved blouse all under an inch high stiff white collar. He'd just seen her in formal Liturgical vestments; now ....

She removes her white sunhat, shakes her long, flame red hair free so it settles below her shoulders. "That's better," she sighs, hating the preparations she'd had to make before leaving the Church.

"I can never get over it," he marvels, still unable to tear his eyes off her.

"Over what?" Her tone hints that she knows, that she's drawing him out.

"I just saw you in full white, blue and gold vestments at Mass, then cassock and white collar at the 'coffee hour', and now...."

"I'm still the same woman, Timmy."

But it's the different aspects of the woman that lately - and frequently - give him problems. He's gotten used to her as a priest, so different from the person he'd dated so many years ago, her life now so different from the passion they'd known that he's uncomfortable with the reminder that she is the same woman. Ironically, he's more used to the woman priest, having tried his best to push back the memories of the loving, deeply passionate girl who'd.... He tries to put those thoughts behind him in distraction.

"Reporters still dogging you?" he asks sympathetically, and can't make the segue seem natural. It's so artificial an evasion it almost hurts, but he prefers subjects with her that intrude less into feelings.

Gauntlets of reporters he's more used to, though for him it's more a matter of traversing the lines on the way to crime scenes, not being the subject of them. As it is, he'll say anything at all to keep from letting her think of how she'd caught him staring - and remembering.

x

"It started out okay," she admits, knowing he's closed off that area of himself - for now. "Being their fair-haired girl after Charlie Morley was captured gave me the chance to turn some attention to the Church, but they eventually left for greener fields. They wanted to know about the battle and the murders, I was telling them the good things Saint Mary's is doing and focusing on the lives of Tina and Chrissie, not on how they died.

"Now, since my apartment was blown up, they're back but the questions are a lot darker. That's why I wanted you to meet me here. If I came out in my 'uniform' I'd be besieged. As it was I had to leave through the parking lot, come around the other street.... It's really becoming a _pain _dodging them, especially if I have to do it in disguise."

He looks her over, trying very hard not to stare. "Quite a disguise," he grants. Her blue windbreaker is closed against the air conditioning. He can just see the bottoms of blue denim shorts - and they really are _short_ - under the material, but nothing interferes with his view from the high - _very_ high - ends of those pants to her white sneakers. She really does have nice–

He rips the thought out of his head. An hour ago she had been wearing a white cinctured alb, white and blue stole and chasuble, the inner side lined in gold and the decorative orphreys extended as a deep blue up toward her shoulders. To call the difference in her disconcerting is an understatement, and he feels he could be quite justified in staring - if he hadn't been _caught _doing it!

Determinedly turning his attention to the street, he starts the car and pulls out into the Washington traffic. But he can't miss the knowing smile on her woman's lips. She'd known where his mind was just as easily as she'd known where his eyes had been.

x

What a way to begin a day off! He'd arranged a day free from the weekend 'rotation' of teams, hardly feeling any guilt due to the new, enhanced team now that Michelle Lee is a permanent member and the new (new) 'Probie'. He'd claimed a 'make-up' for Labor Day so he would have a Sunday afternoon with his old friend, not that he would ever let anyone know about that! Tony would turn this into a date and this is _not _a date. Going out with Zee is a date. This is a - casual - afternoon with an old and dear – _with an old friend_. But–

"How are you settling in?" he tries to find a way to begin a conversation - _any_ conversation - _anything_ to distract him from his sudden discomfort. He'd grown used to thinking of her as a priest - but now she's a _woman_.

No, she's a _priest_, and an old friend, and what they used to be to each other, all those years ago – that's all those years ago.

x

"Just fine," she assures him, her annoyance at the reporters gone, washed away by the presence of her old friend even if she must deal with his lingering disconcertion. "The Rectory has plenty of space, it was actually built when two Priests worked the Parish, so for George it's like having a roommate he hardly has to see unless we're at 'work'."

Father George Donaldson, Rector of 'St. Mary the Virgin' Episcopal Church, had lived in the building alone, that volume of space being no consideration at all against appearances. Some people still, after two years, can barely 'tolerate' the concept of a Woman Priest - let alone one in 'their' parish. It might be more 'socially acceptable' if she were married, but for her to share the Rectory with an equally unmarried Priest ... well, in the eyes of some that was just going too far.

In consideration of 'appearances' she had maintained an apartment several blocks away, until she had been the victim of what the Navy calls 'collateral damage'.

Several bombs had obliterated the top floor of her building, the resulting fire and water damage rendering the two apartments below hers still uninhabitable, all in a failed attempt to kill Abby Sciuto.

x

"And how does the Parish feel about your having to live in the Rectory now?"

She chuckles, though there's less humor than she could want, "Sympathy is still on my side, but the tongues started waggling quickly enough. It only took four days for the first stories to get back to the office."

"That was quick," he tries to conceal his annoyance. She's been through too much to have to endure wagging tongues.

"George handled it better than I would have. He organized the most vocal into a Search Committee to find me a new place to live, even while throwing enough into the mix to make things interesting."

"Yeah?"

"The new place can't be more than a quarter-mile from the Church, has to have at least five rooms, has to be within the Church's budget - since my contract still specifies the apartment comes as part of my stipend. And if it's more than four stories tall, it has to have an elevator..."

"Bet they loved that. You had a sixth floor walk-up," he reminds her.

"I know, but I'm getting old."

"_HA_! You're six weeks younger than I am." Through the corner of his eye he sees her smile momentarily falter, and while he hadn't thought her susceptible to that – she's not vain – he recognizes she's surely feeling very vulnerable. He realizes that maybe right now remembering her distant birthday isn't necessarily a good thing.

"It'll keep them busy while I find a real place; and if they do find one first, then all the better," she continues, this time _her_ tone heavy on distraction. He senses she doesn't want him to see her momentary unhappiness, so he will not see it. "Remember, Timmy, God never allows us to have more challenges than we can handle with His help. He gives us _just_ enough to remind us to call on Him for that help."

Tim thinks about that for a time, but as the silence extends: "Would you like some music?" he indicates the iPod plugged into the car's stereo speakers.

"Sure."

"What would you like?"

"Whatever." She's more interested in what he likes, the subject of music rarely comes up between them. In an attempt to draw him out, she says; "you know, I recall someone once saying that everyone has a theme of music. I think he was listening to an old Victrola in a cable rerun of a 60's television show, but that line has always stuck with me."

"You do," he answers absently, attention on the road before him. He only realizes his slip when he catches her look of interest.

"I do?"

"Uh, er, ah, I mean to me you do." Did he really say that _out loud_? Idiot! "I don't know - I, er, well, whenever I hear it I think of you." He knows he's trapped, no amount of evasion or obfuscation will save him from the consequences of this flub.

"What is it? 'Here come the Clowns'?" She tries to lighten his embarrassment, give him the chance to laugh off his 'slip', but it has the opposite effect. Without taking his eyes off the road he reaches over, selects the music by touch alone. He'd intended _not_ to play it, but he will not have his feelings mocked.

She realizes that he was probably listening to it recently - perhaps while waiting for her? - and she wonders what piece characterizes her to him.

It is a soft, haunting melody, vaguely familiar, flutes and other woodwinds complimented by violins which carry the listener along. She sees on the screen the name 'Siobhan's Theme', but knows of no such work, certainly not one so familiar. "What is it?" she asks softly, not wanting to drown out a note of the music.

"I got it off a CD, it's from 'Star Trek', background music to a scene. They call it 'Ruth', one of Kirk's old loves. I renamed it."

She listens to the flute and strings for a time. "It's very romantic," she says softly, searching his face. He starts abruptly, perhaps realizing what his thoughtlessness has revealed, for he reaches for the iPod and switches it off.

"It's a memory - of an old time," he doesn't say it is a time that will never come again. He doesn't have to - his embarrassed tone speaks for a heart filled to bursting with reservations.

He'd decried the problem to her with his first words. 'I can never get over it.'

xxx

Lt. Jeffrey Carpenter, Metro Homicide, inspects the bedroom from the doorway, makes no attempt to enter the room before taking in the entire scene. He will leave that for the uniformed officers who had preceded him. For now he wants the impression of the whole. Plenty of time for details.

The man's nude body lies supine upon the double bed, the top of his head a shattered mess. The headboard, pillow and mattress are awash in dried blood. At least, he reflects, it's not worse for odor. The man had clearly prepared himself for sleep and more.

Near the lower left corner of the bed is a Smith & Wesson .22 caliber revolver - a potent weapon, especially at such short range.

Beside the bed on the right lies another body, wedged into the space between the bed and the wide sliding closet door. The woman has short blonde hair and is almost dressed in a sheer pink 'baby-doll' negligee sans panties. It's obvious she too is well readied for bed though not for sleep. All might probably have gone well too, except for the bloody hole which mars the back of her head.

Metro Homicide had gotten the call from the original unit which had responded to calls of what sounded like gunshots being fired, followed by silence. The fact that the calls had come in quite a number of hours after the incident, after considerable and extended 'silence', had not pleased anybody. By the time the initial investigation in the late morning had determined the need for a Homicide Detail, the scene was quite stale. It's past lunchtime , and Carpenter is sure he's not going to get any. This scene will take some time to investigate.

He does not get much time to do so before a uniformed officer calls his attention to a particularly nasty piece of evidence.

"You sure?" He feels foolish for having asked it. It is only a measure of his reluctance to give in that he even entertains the thought that the man _might_ be wrong.

"Yes, sir." The black man has a wallet in his gloved hand. It came from beside keys and change left upon the night table on the left side of the bed. Photographed in situ, it had then been opened to allow the unpleasant discovery.

"All right," he tries to keep a growl from his voice as he pulls out his cell phone, "no one touches anything else. Gotta call it in."

At least now he'll get lunch.

xxx

Tim removes his blue windbreaker. The afternoon has grown too warm for the light material at the County Fair. A collection of tents, booths, rides and thousands upon thousands of people fill McMillan Park, an expanse bordered by Michigan Avenue, Bryant Street NW, 4th Street NW and encompassing McMillan Reservoir, whose cooling breezes face a losing battle against Indian Summer. Washington is presently enjoying (or tolerating, depending on whom one asks) a mid-September heat spell, excellent news for the organizers of this huge event though not for many others.

The red haired woman beside him removes her own light jacket in deference to the increasing warmth and Tim McGee forgets to breathe. He'd noticed when he'd picked her up the very short shorts, he could hardly have missed that when she had opened his car door and gotten in. But though he'd dwelled upon the generous view of her smooth legs he was unprepared for the full package.

She wears a red buttonless halter top knotted below her breasts, only the bowed straps behind interrupt the smoothness of her bare sides and back. That coupled with the _very_ brief blue denim shorts over white sneakers mean he could suffocate before remembering to take a breath. There are two buttoned pockets on the scarlet halter, both empty, nothing marring the smoothness of the material.

He'd seen the same outfit almost a week ago in her former apartment when he had dropped Abby Sciuto off for Protection Detail and had not slept well that night. Now, seeing her grin as he sees her again in this inspiring attire, he knows that the first time had been intentional.

"You're determined to shock me, Shav," he tells her when he'd relieved his depleted lungs.

"Now Timmy," she chides, "would _I _do that?"

"Every day and twice on Saturdays."

"Then you're lucky today's Sunday," she assures him with a teasing grin.

Looking at the scarlet halter top showing only a discreet inch between her breasts but leaving her sides and back bare, and at her blue shorts, he decides she's challenged him enough, unbuttons and pulls off his shirt. He's left with a jade green tee shirt emblazoned with bold white 'MIT'. He regards her archly.

"You win," she grants, but then reconsiders, "_this_ round."

x

But then reality, at least so far as he knows it, rears up and slaps him in the face. "Wait a minute," he tells her sharply, trying to get a handle on the universe, "wasn't this outfit _blown up_?"

As part of a dramatic weekend most members of NCIS would rather forget, several bombs had detonated in the woman's former apartment, destroying everything in a failed attempt to kill Abby Sciuto. Her murderer would've only considered Siobhan's death an added bonus.

"Incinerated is more like it. But I like this combination, so I replaced it when I went shopping for clothes with some of the money the Church advanced me against the insurance on my apartment. I like what it says."

She doesn't mention that, of the clothing she has, 80 percent is mismatched and ill-fitting, from storage intended for an upcoming 'Thrift Sale'. Of her Clerical clothing she has only the single short sleeved blouse and black skirt she'd been wearing that fateful morning. George Donaldson had offered some of his black shirts. She'd tried on one of the larger traditional blacks with the square white at the throat, looked at herself in the mirror and determined she'd use them sparingly indeed. She'd wear her blue for going out, the rest when she was not going to leave the Parish, and the 'hand-me-downs' the rest of the time while she counted the days until her order could be filled.

"What does it say?" Typically, influenced by his friend Abby, he looks for a hidden message, not the one before his eyes.

Despite her desire to speak to him seriously, Siobhan can't help but grin. Sometimes Timmy can be so literal, little different than she remembers him from years ago. "It _says_ that, in addition to my public life, I am a vital and alive woman."

"That it does," he agrees, considering himself far wiser than to have hesitated, and very much appreciative of the message, "and an amazingly beautiful and sexy one."

He realizes, at the look of surprise and appreciation on her face, that he had carelessly spoken the thought aloud and is absolutely _mortified_. Maybe he isn't as wise as he'd thought and should have hesitated a while - and then kept his damn mouth shut. This definitely crosses his self-imposed line.

"Thank you, Timmy." It is almost like he _used_ to talk, and she realizes that, with him, she'd missed it.

"Ab - ah - um - don't mention it." '_Please_ don't _ever _mention it!' he concludes silently. He cannot, however, let one unsettling thought go, latching onto _anything_ he can that will distract her from that embarrassing gaff. "But what would your Congregation say if they could see you like this?"

She grins, recalling her point even against his flattering comment. "I'm incognito – they'll never recognize me."

It is her cosmic misfortune that at this moment two young women and one young man, none of whom she knows to be over nineteen, pass before them. One of the women greets her: "Hi, Mother O'Mallory."

"Nice threads," the other says appreciatively, this image being _far_ different from the one she is used to.

"Hello Helen, Cathy," she greets them casually, "Tom."

Tom looks, does a double-take and then cannot drag his eyes off Siobhan until Helen, barely slowing down in passing, reaches back and grabs the front of his tee shirt. She yanks him after her hard enough to make him stumble.

Tim turns to Siobhan, victorious - and relieved. Maybe she has forgotten his slip. "I rest my case."

"_One time_. And I am not embarrassed, Timmy. We both have lives outside our work. And if anyone is 'uncomfortable' with that I'll pray for them - while I'm enjoying my life."

"In that case," he says, knowing far better to criticize but offering his arm instead; "let's enjoy the day."

xxx

"Gear up, people," Gibbs orders as he pulls his desk drawer open, removes his shield and gun. At the same time he pushes a button on his phone, sends a signal downstairs. His team has weekend rotation and there seems to be no such thing as a quiet weekend. Around him Lee, DiNozzo and David make their rapid preparations.

Ducky and Jimmy, on duty dealing with an autopsy for Agent Joswig's team, are not going to be happy.

"What have we got, boss?" DiNozzo asks.

"Navy Captain and his wife, looks like a murder / suicide," he tells them, already on his way to the elevator. The case is already old. If NCIS had been notified in time, Martine Joswig's or Fred Higgin's people would already have the case. As it is now, it falls to Gibbs and _his_ people. "Ring up McGee, have him meet us."

DiNozzo, heading for the elevator, pulls out his cell phone, knowing the man will not be happy. This is a planned day off which had already been approved some days ago, a 'make-up' for having worked Labor Day. McGee had thought to 'score' two days by getting off on a Sunday, where Tony had spent his own day off with Jeanne on Thursday following the stresses of the murderous stalker's hunt of Abby Sciuto. He hadn't even having tried for a weekend - but this is just the price of being a shortsighted Probie.

"Do it on the way, DiNozzo," Gibbs admonishes. He, Lee and David are already at the opening doors to the elevator.

"On your six, boss," he replies, trotting after them.

xx

Ducky and Jimmy are not happy. They'd finished the actual work of this morning's autopsy and were dressed to leave when the signal had come in. Diverted from an early day, they're getting into the blue and white Medical Examiner truck when the elevator doors open.

"You're not planning on leaving us in the dust this time, are you?" Ducky inquires, his tone clearly showing he knows better than to get his hopes up.

"Just keeping up your driving skills," he replies, looking pointedly to Palmer.

"I'm getting better," he insists.

"Yes, you are," Ducky commends from beside him. "It has been a long time now since we have gotten lost."

"Since I've started chasing Agent Gibbs, all I'm afraid of getting is arrested."

xxx

Timothy McGee feels he's very quietly losing what's left of his mind.

Ever since his reunion with his old classmate nearly two years ago, and his discovery of where life and fate had taken the wild and irrepressible girl he'd used to know, he had managed to draw a line in the sand between them.

Had she come back into his life in any other manner than she had, he would have been able to find some way of dealing with it. It would have made no difference in his relationship with Ziva - at least he _thinks_ not though that is only about four months old - but the circumstances of his reunion with 'Shav' O'Mallory had definitely stamped the sign 'Untouchable' upon her.

Okay, he could deal with that. The past is the past, they've both moved on with their lives. _S__he _certainly has moved somewhere with hers, but while he could miss what they had, she is now 'Unapproachable'.

Almost every time he encounters her, she's in her 'uniform'. It only reinforces that impression of 'untouchable' upon him. Her 'uniform', at least the summer one, is a medium-long black skirt, light blue silk blouse that buttons up the back and that oh-so-distinctive inch high stiff white collar.

To him that circle marks a boundary he could never cross, can never dare to _allow_ himself to cross. Of all but one occasion when he saw her otherwise she was 'working'. She'd be in some variation of full Liturgical attire, which were an even greater help in enforcing that restriction.

'Look but don't touch'. In fact, 'Don't Even _Look_'!

x

Then came the day he'd dropped Abby off where she could be safe from a mad and murderous stalker and for the first time he saw Shav in other attire (a copy of _this_ attire) and had seen her primarily - only - as a _woman_. He hadn't been entirely truthful when he'd told her he had not slept well that night. The truth is he had not slept _at all_!

Memory of wild years past had aided surprise in breaking down carefully built barriers, leaving his resolve to never think of her in terms other than the image she presented and the life she lived deeply fractured.

'Untouchable' and 'unnoticeable' had cracked under the strain of seeing her as the woman she really is, and he wasn't prepared for a reality that doesn't include reinforcements of limitations. He still hasn't recovered. He can't, even now, stop himself from looking at her, trying to see her when she doesn't notice.

And now, seeing her on what was _supposed _to be just a casual afternoon out with a friend, trying so hard to _pretend_ that nothing at all has changed, unable to keep himself from taking notice of her, he _damns _himself for trying to get an occasional 'peek'.

'Unapproachable' now cracks under that same strain and he feels infinitely worse - because he cannot rid himself of the suspicion that she _knows_!


	2. Dead Man Walking

Chapter Two  
Dead Man Walking

Gibbs' car, bearing himself and Ziva, precedes the black and white MCR truck to stop before a tall condominium, the blue and white M.E. truck sliding in behind it. The building is distinguished from its companions by its impressive collection of patios, one outside every apartment that faces the street.

The building faces a park and Tony notes the number of women in it. He's certain those patios provide excellent views. "I'd love to live here," he says, thinking both of the convenience and the opportunity to view so many delectable sights.

"Talk to the Super," Ziva advises. "We already know there is a vacancy."

That thought makes the prospect lose much of its appeal.

"Come on," Gibbs commands, "the Joralemons aren't going to wait all day. And call McGee again."

Ziva pulls out her phone. "We'll be investigating his murder next," DiNozzo predicts.

"We will not have far to look for a suspect."

xx

"Metro Homicide got the call late last night about gunshots fired in an apartment on the twelfth floor," Gibbs fills Ducky and Palmer in while they ride the elevator. Lee stands in a rear corner trapped by the Examiners' extensive equipment and she tries to remain discreetly unobtrusive. She does not look directly at them, uncomfortable to be in such close quarters with Palmer and have to pretend casual disinterest.

DiNozzo and David had been left in the lobby, neither anxious to be with Gibbs while in his present mood.

Gibbs had filled the Agents in already on the way and is quite annoyed not to have McGee on the scene. Granted it's his day off, but to be out of touch violates of Rule 5 and is an offence the man will pay for. "When they found that the husband is a Navy Captain they called us," he concludes to Ducky and Jimmy.

The doors slide open onto the twelfth floor, a sign before them indicates their destination to the right. Making that turn, the sign becomes quite superfluous. The apartment in question is easily distinguished by the yellow 'Crime Scene' tape crossing the open door and the uniformed Policewoman stationed outside. Gibbs, leading the others, has his shield case already out, displays the gold badge and then his two Identification cards. "Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS; Special Agent Lee; Medical Examiners Mallard and Palmer."

"I recognize you, Special Agent Gibbs," the black woman assures him. "We worked a case two years ago. How have you been?"

"Good, and you?" He doesn't recognize her, but it never hurts to be sociable – to a point.

"No worries."

"Gibson, let them in already!" a sharp voice commands from within. The woman steps aside, essaying a smile. It is not easy.

x

Gibbs ducks under the tape, Mallard, Palmer and Lee each greet the woman cordially before doing the same, Ducky doffing his white fishing hat to her.

The living room is as big as Gibbs' living room, kitchen and den combined. A computer workstation and an entertainment center cover the right wall. The far wall, almost an obscene distance away, is a huge glass expanse partially covered by white drapes spread to show the sliding glass door and patio beyond. The left wall contains chairs and a couch that face the overlarge entertainment center.

Gibbs already recognized the voice of the Detective Lieutenant in charge. He's a tall, thin man in a trenchcoat that belies the heat wave, a brown suit and browner mood. "'Lost another one to Nickis'," the man paraphrases disgustedly.

"Hey, can I help it if we get all the interesting ones?" Gibbs' cheeriness is in sharp contrast to the other's mood.

"You could if you'd _try_," the man tells him sourly, his moustache bristling. "This is the fourth time this quarter. I didn't _like _losing the Hotel Maritz killings - that could have been a Career-maker."

The four uniformed officers and the Agents have all paused, watching this confrontation. Though the Lieutenant seems quite put out, Gibbs is unflappable.

"Or breaker," he points out affably, relishing the other's ire. "Besides, what would you have done with 'Batgirl' or 'Wonder Woman'?"

"Not a lot, they were dead. But we'd've found 'Supergirl' a lot quicker - _without _losing an Agent or raising an unholy row throughout an entire Convention."

"You're just mad that we finally made the News." NCIS had been given detailed _and accurate_ credit in print, radio and television, finally coming out of the shadow of 'Federal Authorities'.

"For four freakin' _days_! I couldn't turn on the radio without hearing about Nickis."

"Tell you what, Carpenter," Gibbs offers with a rare smile, "next time you can have 'Catwoman'."

"I'll take her," he says, breaking into a delighted grin. "I just _love_ Halle Berry."

"Don't let Cathy hear you say that. She'll teach you some new tricks with claws," Gibbs warns with a disarming smile, the 'tension' between them vanishing.

"Amen to that. How've you been, Leejay?"

"Good, Carp. You?"

"Can't complain," he shrugs. "Doesn't do any good and eventually they just stop listening."

"Ya think?" But then the easy mood evaporates into work as DiNozzo and David duck under the tape. "What've you got?"

"A bloody mess," Jeff Carpenter replies, "and you're welcome to it. I's outta here."

He leads them to the door on their left and the bedroom beyond. Gibbs looks pointedly at Ziva, who shrugs helplessly.

Her lover is a dead man.

x

To right of center is a queen size bed upon which lies the nude body of a man. The pillow and headboard are drenched in blood, the top of the man's head is shattered and covers the top of the bed. To the right, on the floor, a woman's body lies crumpled in the space between the bed and sliding closet door. She wears only a very brief, translucent and generously cut pink nightgown, but the front of her body is sprayed with blood. Her head is largely intact, though a pool of blood has accumulated behind it, having soaked the carpet. The reason her head is intact is fairly clear from the large spray of blood at slightly higher than average head height that covers the sliding door behind her. Near the center of the wide spatter is a small hole.

On the floor at the left side of the bed lies the only article of clothing the man had evidently been wearing, the boxers apparently dispensed with in expectation of his wife's arrival. Ziva displays no visible reaction to his prepared state but Michelle glances away, her face reddening. Near the left side foot of the bed lies a Smith and Wesson .22 revolver.

"DiNozzo, sketches; Lee, photos; Ziva, scan." The team spreads out while Gibbs and Carpenter return to the outer room.

xxx

Tim McGee and Siobhan O'Mallory casually tour the multitude of tents and booths of the Festival. They have no particular interest in what's being sold, indulging in the art of shopping without shopping. Siobhan, even as she looks over the wares offered in the various tents, is more aware of Tim's eyes upon her than on the tables.

She will not, however, reconsider her choice of attire. In addition to being suitably outfitted for the September heat, there has to be a distinction between the two aspects of her life. There aren't two lives here, her position and her choice are distinct and the commitments she has made inviolable and inflexible. The Priest has her life and her duty – and not for a moment will she shirk that – but she also owes a duty to the Woman.

She has a life outside St. Mary the Virgin Episcopal Church, and in a very real sense Tim McGee - both on and off duty - is a part of that life. He's her oldest friend, they have a long if interrupted history together and the time they spend together, rare enough as it is away from work, is as important to her. She hopes it is to him.

Besides, if anyone were to question her choice of leisure time she would, after frying that person in his own grease, point out that it is _still_ work related. She is, by Tim's 'devious manipulation', the Chaplain for the Headquarters District of 'Enkiss'.

x

She briefly wonders if, while they're alone and able to speak freely, it would be a good idea to bring up the fact that she had engaged the assistance of a Psychiatrist in the hope that she will help her with recurring panic attacks. She firmly dismisses the idea.

The panic attacks are a result of her very narrow escape from death when her apartment had been bombed by the madman who had been stalking Abby Sciuto. Siobhan had been asked to give Sanctuary to the woman and a few hours later her apartment had been blown up.

But no, Timmy had instigated that Sanctuary for their friend and the consequence of it could only cause him guilt. She will not speak of it, no matter how much Dr. McFadden has recommended it.

x

Bent low over a table she glances up in time to catch his eyes below the level of her own before they dart aside. She looks down and discovers the cause of his intense scrutiny. He will, however, not be allowed to pretend he's fooled her. Looking up, she smiles but pitches her voice so low no one else may hear. "Timmy, you are dangerously close to having to meet me for Confession."

"I'd _love_ to get you alone in a dark booth."

The words are out of his mouth before he can pull them back and she straightens. It's an excellent question who's more surprised. "Timmy–."

"Shav - I - I'm _sorry_! I - I didn't - I wasn't - I didn't - think - I'm –." She raises her hands.

"I'm not offended," she assures him. It had been more of an admission than she had expected but they're hardly strangers in that sense. Their High School years in Maryland, though well in the past, had been fiery.

He looks around, somewhat desperately she thinks, searching for absolutely anything until his eyes lock on something outside the tent. "Would you like some chicken?"

She grins. It's the most forced segue she's heard in months. "Sure." As they start out of the tent, she asks: "Leg or wing?"

"I like breasts and thighs," he answers, grateful his gaff had been evaded.

"_I know_," she responds meaningfully, causing him to stumble on a patch of uneven ground.

xxx

While Mallard and Palmer stand aside, patiently discerning what they may at a distance, the Field Agents spread out in the bedroom, each having his or her job. Lee, with the large digital camera, starts at one corner and takes a panorama series of shots, then repeats the procedure from the opposite corner. Next come close-ups of both bodies and the surrounding area. She leans in without disturbing the blood nor other evidence as DiNozzo uses a large sketch pad to draw a triangulated perspective rendering that will give a better judgment of scale than can be obtained in any number of photos.

In the meantime, David does a careful visual inspection of the room, scanning a progressive layered grid, seeking anything that might require the attention of her fellows. Gibbs, in the outer room, continues gathering every detail he can from Lt. Carpenter and the four uniformed officers.

"Are you ready, my dear?" Mallard asks as Michelle withdraws a step, clears the way to the side of the bed and lowers her camera.

"All yours, Doctor Duck," she winces, unable to believe she's just said that. "I mean 'Doctor Mallard', sir."

"Why don't we just stick to 'Ducky', shall we?" he asks, unable to hide his amusement.

"Yes, Doctor." She steps out of his way across the foot of the bed and lets him pass, _wishing_ she were not blushing so hotly. She meets Jimmy's eyes as he follows.

"'Doctor Duck'," he whispers teasingly, his lips barely moving.

"Looking at you," she whispers even more softly, her lips almost still, "you're lucky I didn't say 'Doctor _Dick'_."

"No," he corrects her so softly that to anyone else they could be just gazing silently into each other's eyes, "_you're_ lucky."

"If you're _quite_ ready, Mr. Palmer."

"Yes, Doctor." Jimmy breaks away to join his senior. There won't be room to do more than observe behind Mallard, but he comes into the space nonetheless. He's already come too close to getting caught and won't risk their secret being revealed.

"What have you got?" Gibbs asks, coming back into the room. He's dismissed the LEOs and formally assumed command of the scene.

"An Assistant who needs to keep his mind on business," Ducky answers testily, examining the body wedged into the space before him. "As to the rest, I'll let you know."

x

"The gun's a Smith & Wesson .22 caliber revolver, manufactured since the turn of the century," DiNozzo reports, pausing in his sketching. Gibbs looks at him pointedly, as if asking how he's determined manufacture date. "It has the modifications imposed in the 2000 Act. The safety is off, four shots fired."

"Gun came from in here," Ziva calls across the room from near the dresser at the window. Lee takes a picture of the position from near the bed and then crosses to photograph the contents of the open top drawer. There's a vacant space next to a cardboard box of ammunition, .22 caliber.

They'll learn at Headquarters who the gun is registered to. It's certainly not the sidearm Captain Joralemon had been issued.

x

Turning to the bed again, Gibbs notices something small and dark buried under the unused pillow closer to the closet, presumably Mary's side. Lifting it, he finds a slim, round CD player, the unit barely larger than the disk it would play. A black wire extends to a three inch wide speaker, positioned just under the listener's ear. "DiNozzo, bag this." Lifting the pillow, he finds nothing else of interest, nor is there anything under the covers. Going to the foot of the bed, he looks under it. "A lot of books and magazines."

A check of the titles reveals an innocuous collection, no carnal bedtime reading. The titles run more to Sports Illustrated and McCall's, last week's TV Guide and a few paperbacks, mostly Science Fiction, Mysteries and Romance along with a Readers' Digest. Apparently the couple had a habit of reading in bed and then, when tired, tossing the books conveniently out of the way, kept in easy reach for the next chapters.

x

"What can you tell me, Duck?" Gibbs asks.

The Medical Examiner is perched on the balls of his feet beside the woman's crumpled body, as close as he can get in the limited space. He looks up from the thermometer inserted into her side, regards the Senior Agent past the brim of his white fishing hat.

"Three shots to Captain Joralemon's head, one to hers, so Cause of Death," he raises his hands expansively, "is fairly obvious.

"Time?"

He consults the probe, the thermometer clipped to the outside of his shirt pocket and his watch. "I would say some twelve to sixteen hours ago." Working with temperature and the onsets and regressions of three stages of rigor mortis, one can never specify exactly a time of death; that's for television. However, a six hour range is usual and four hours is better than Gibbs would have hoped for.

"After firing three bullets into the Captain's skull, managing to get blowback blood all over the front of herself, I'd say she turned the gun upon herself. Splatter on the closet door," he points upward, "indicates an upward angle. I'd say she is about 5'8", perhaps 9. The splatter and the bullet hole are directed upward. She inserted the barrel into her mouth and pulled the trigger, and backlash threw the pistol to the foot of the bed."

"Most women," Ziva interjects, "will be concerned about their appearances and she might have chosen this method as a way of ensuring a decent wake. He, of course, will require a closed casket."

Unfortunately, in his experience, Gibbs cannot argue with her assertion. It's a too familiar one. Looking to DiNozzo, he sees he's finished his last sketch.

"Where the _hell_ is McGee?" It may be his day off, but Gibbs can use the man's experience and he's growing quite annoyed at not having it.

"I tried his cell phone again," Ziva reports. "Nothing."

"When I get my hands on him …. What about the bullets?"

"One hole in the closet door," she sums up, intending to check the interior when she has room. "The blood soaked into the pillow and mattress, but only one bullet exited the bottom of the mattress but did not penetrate into the floor." They will have to dig the other two out of the mattress after the man's body has been removed.

"Come on, Lee, we'll go chat up the neighbors. The report says they were a loving couple, let's see if we can find the cause of this falling out."

"Yes, sir." She puts down the camera.

"Don't call me 'sir'," he directs as they start out of the bedroom, "I work for a living."

"Yes, sss - Special Agent Gibbs, s -," she looks up, lost, seeing his look and completely misinterpreting it, "I - I mean _Supervisory_ Special Agent Gibbs, sss -."

"Lee?"

"Yes, Sp - si - ."

"Stick with 'sir'."

"Thank you, sir."

xx

The cause of the falling out doesn't become readily apparent in the interviews with the neighbors, mostly elderly residents, on either side or directly opposite. The other apartments on this floor, four in the long corridor, are presumably unoccupied, no responses coming to their knocks. He will have to wait for evening for answers from that quarter.

As before, the Joralemons are described as a loving couple, just over a year married, never loud or obnoxious. Mark's duties frequently require him to be gone for extended periods, Mary is home daily. There were no fights, at least none that had ever been heard. Mary had been a fairly regular participant in the condo's Tenants' Association, never taking part in an official capacity but present at meetings. Mark, to their collective knowledge, had not attended one in the five years he'd resided in the building.

When Gibbs and Lee return to the apartment, they find David standing near the computer workstation at the right corner. Before her is an open checkbook next to the keyboard, a white pen holds it open. "Looks like one of them had been marking last month's transactions, but got as far as the 21st."

There's no printed statement from the bank in sight, and the unchecked transactions evidently continue on a later page, but the end of the current open page shows a balance on the 26th of $2,867. "This page shows utilities; monthly maintenance fee; church donations - Saint James' Catholic Church; a Doctor Sam Richards; cable bill and three deposits totaling $1,580."

"All right; bag and tag the computer; McGee can look into it - assuming he ever _shows up_." It will not be the first time money had provided the motive for a violent resolution to a disagreement. Perhaps there had been something in the records that was 'displeasing'.

xxx

Tim McGee is enjoying his afternoon and detesting himself.

For the first time - the very first time since he'd reencountered his former girlfriend over a year ago - he has the opportunity to spend an afternoon with her outside the confining pressures of NCIS or St. Mary's and he cannot keep his eyes _off_ her!

Part of him enjoys the prospect. Another, stronger part, bitterly remonstrates him for acting like a High Schooler on a date! He is a mature, seasoned Special Agent, well on his way to fame as a Writer - he had had three lovely women on his arm at a nightclub because of his writing (okay, granted they _were _Agents and that _was _an undercover operation but they were still three sexy, _hot _women) but the mere presence of_ this_ woman is sending him spiraling out of control - and all because of a little not even revealing clothing. Granted she shows as much or less skin as most of the women and girls who he has seen today, less than he's seen on many; but this is _Siobhan_, and he should not be –!

Okay, they are not strangers - far from it. They had spent four years together in Bethesda and he knows – _knew_ – her intimately, with the intimacy only a Lover can manage during over three years, but that was _years_ ago and they are _not_ in High School anymore! He is a seasoned NCIS Agent who should have better control of his feelings and his responses _and_ his behavior, and she is a _Priest_!

Okay, granted she doesn't _look _like a Priest at the moment, but she is one and definitely, absolutely off limits. Okay, she _ha__s_been very clear to him that the halves of her life are intertwined and distinct (how he wishes he could manage such a trick!) but he should have better _control _of himself than to be looking at her body every chance he gets!

Fine, okay,, it _is_ an exceptional body and the years - and not all _that many_ of them - have been kind to her but – but – but it's wrong to do it and he should have better–.

"Timmy, what's wrong?"

"Huh?" he asks, broken out of his reverie.

"You were looking so fierce, what's wrong?"

"I… I guess I … I was thinking ... about a case. My mind was wandering. Sorry, won't happen again."

"You looked so angry. Is it anything you'd like to discuss?"

He shakes his head. Was this her professional priest side or her friend side? 'Oh, I'm going to go mad if I keep this up!' "Forget it; it's not important."

Discussing it with her is the _last_ thing he wants to do!

xxx

When Gibbs returns to the bedroom Ducky and Jimmy have sealed the bodies into two black bags set on gurneys. Otherwise, the initial examination of the scene is not a rapid process; the Forensic team will be hours examining the apartments. His patience might not be strong but there is no arguing with this fact. As soon as the bodies are gone he'll have DiNozzo dig the bullets out of the mattress and from the closet, then another series of pictures. David has already detached the computer and sealed it in a clear plastic Evidence bag.

Taking out his cell phone, he punches in a code and after two rings a lifeless computer drones in his ear in a poor facsimile of a woman's voice 'the subscriber you are trying to reach has moved out of reception range or is otherwise unavail-.' He snaps the phone shut.

"So, Duck," he asks, trying to contain his aggravation, "any conclusions?"

"Now, Jethro, you know I never give conclusions until after lunch," the shorter man admonishes. "However," he allows, picking up his black satchel and resting it on the bed, "I find no indication of a third party and the IGSR test on Mrs. Joralemon's hands is consistent with the visual evidence. The stippling on Captain Joralemon's body indicates the gun was fired from no more than three feet. Time of death is approximately between 8:00 and midnight, based upon the initial reports, COD is straightforward; three shots to the skull in his case, while one bullet entered through her upper palate and exited through the occipital bone. Death, in both cases, was instantaneous - but the main question awaits much deeper examination."

Gibbs knows he has received all that can be presented from an initial survey. More answers will await the more detailed examination in Autopsy and Abby's lab. But the main question in this case is: 'Why?'

xxx

"I can't see the ticket office." Siobhan admits, trying to look through the crowd within the rides section.

"I'm taller, I could see it better."

"Can _you_ find it?"

His head swivels to track three young women almost wearing a partial set of clothing between them. When he looks back to her, he's surprised to see her smiling. "What?"

"You weren't this easy to distract when we were younger," she quips.

"Yes I was," he maintains, still searching among the rides for the booth, "you were the one doing the distracting."

"And now?" she asks meaningfully.

He turns to her, completely lost for words. He has already made a fool of himself once for speaking instead of thinking. That is _not _going to happen again.

Since resuming his more 'casual' relationship with her since she had joined NCIS at his instigation, he's held himself in very careful check with her. On the one hand, they have an old and long history together, and quite an intimate one, but he cannot – _will_ not – allow himself to forget that, in the intervening years that they'd been apart, she had become an Episcopal Priest.

"Well?" she urges, reminding him that she had asked a question.

"Shav, I–" He doesn't know what to say, cannot admit to what he would say to the lovely woman. "I–"

She steps in front of him, smiling that maddening smile, "Yes?"

"I–" He's relieved as a break in the crowd reveals his target. "I've found the ticket booth. Come on." He steps around her - quickly.

"On your sex, Timmy," she agrees.

He slams to a stop, looks back at the flame-haired woman. "That's '_Six_'; as in following!"

She smiles sweetly at him as she steps past; "You have your fun, I'll have mine."

As she walks away, she adds a definite accent to the hip hugging shorts.

x

Siobhan admits to herself she shouldn't tease him so, but he is so uncomfortable and conflicted around her she would do _anything_ to break through it. He had been the one who had suggested this afternoon as a way of spending time together away from the restrictions of their respective duties, but he is so _uncomfortable_ in seeing her as a woman as well as a Priest that he cannot relax and see her for herself.

She'll break through that. Somehow.


	3. Fulfillment

Chapter Three  
Fulfillment

In the Joralemon apartment the initial sweep nears completion. A Forensics team is on the way to do a thorough investigation. They'll accumulate a massive amount of evidence for NCIS' Forensic Scientist to examine in her laboratory.

The bodies of Mark and Mary Joralemon are encased in black body bags set upon gurneys and the four spent rounds have been recovered, two of them in impressive condition for having gone through Mark's skull to imbed themselves in the soft mattress. The third shot, recovered from under the bed, has hardly been damaged at all, having encountered little resistance along its way.

The only upcoming appreciable damage to be found will be to Timothy McGee, an increasingly steamed Gibbs resolves as he snaps his phone shut.

"I'm sure he has an excellent reason," Ziva assures him. "When we are done here, I will use the GPS circuit in his phone to–"

"When we're done here, _I'm_ going to find him," Gibbs counters. "And when I do, he'd better have just barely avoided a hit by an Al Qaeda cell."

xxx

"Come on, three balls for $5, knock the bottles over to win a prize," the Barker urges, trying to grasp the attentions of those who pass between two rows of wooden booths.

"Oh, let me try," Siobhan says, crossing to the booth. She pulls a $5 bill from the pocket of her shorts, hands it to the man and receives three baseballs, setting them on the counter before her. She selects one and takes careful aim at the weighted silver metal 'bottles' stacked one on two before a heavy backdrop eight feet away. Her overhand style, however, is more suited to shot put than baseball, her whole body thrown into the motion. The ball arcs the several feet and bounces off the lower pair.

"Well, nice to know _some_ things don't change," Tim observes with a smile.

"What do you mean?" she asks, taking the next ball.

"All these years, you still throw like a girl."

"Do not," she denies, preparing the second ball, "I throw like a _woman_."

"She's got you there, pal," the Barker observes, admiring her form more than her technique.

The next ball, thrown in the same full body style, barely nudges the left bottle.

"I rest my case," Tim tells her, this time with an almost mocking smile.

"I've still got one more throw. I'll bet you I knock them all down this time."

"Yeah, _right_." He doesn't _want_ to mock her, but this is ridiculous.

Affronted, she turns to him, hands on her shapely hips. "Fifty bucks says I do!"

"Come on," he denies with a grin. She'd barely nudged them, she could not possibly think–

"Fifty _bucks_, wise guy," she tugs her shield case / wallet out of the back pocket of her shorts and opens it, careful not to flash the gold badge, and slaps a $50 bill on the counter. "Watch that it doesn't blow away." The Barker obligingly puts his hand upon it. By now her challenging tone attracts the attentions of a growing number of people.

"I don't want to take your money, Shav."

"What, _chicken_? You can make disparaging remarks about my style, but won't put up fifty bucks to back your word?"

"You won't even move one, but if you _insist_ on making a fool of yourself, it's gonna cost you." He takes out his own wallet, puts two 20's and a 10 on top of her money, held down by the Barker.

Siobhan takes the last ball, backs two paces away, one of the men in the growing crowd urging the others to 'give the lady room'. Winding up, she launches a blazing fastball and the bottles explode back, stopped with heavy thumps by the thick backdrop.

McGee feels his mouth fall open under wide eyes as the crowd cheers. "You really didn't see that one coming?" the barker asks as he hands Siobhan the $100 and her choice of prize, a stuffed calico cat. She hands Tim his money with a satisfied grin.

"I don't want your money, Timmy. The look on your face is payment enough."

xxx

Looking around the apartment one last time, Gibbs is ready to wrap things up. The orange clad Forensics Team has arrived. They will take the room apart, providing for Abby a recreated scene as well as an impressive store of material to analyze. The more immediate analysis will be done in the bullpen as they attempt to discern why a wife of two years put three holes through her husband's head before eating a bullet herself.

"Pack it up, we're done here," he orders, glancing at the laptop computer in DiNozzo's hands. It is under wraps, and as far as Gibbs is concerned it's not the only thing.

"We're done here is right," DiNozzo agrees, "but what about McGee?"

"He's just done."

xxx

It's been years since Siobhan has been on a roller coaster and it still terrifies her. Settling into the seat, she takes off her glasses, buttons them into her halter pocket. The world is a haze of lights and darks, completely unintelligible. She can only tell from the loud ratcheting and the tilt that they're ascending the first hill. Shadows are gone, only blue haze sits above the red car.

The world falls out from under her. Siobhan throws her arms around Timmy, buries her face in his shoulder and shrieks.

Buffeted side to side, her hair whipped wildly about her head, she screams as the invisible car throws her about. She can't anticipate any turn even if she dares to look, can only cling to the man beside her.

Finally it's over. She's safe. It was only 56 seconds - it had felt an eternity of noise and light and dark and clinging in terror to the man. The car slides to a stop, the sounds of machinery surround her again and Timmy is helping her out of the car.

She's giddy, laughing with him, thrilled and shaking. He guides her by his arm around her shaking shoulders, she can't make out the shifting blurs of dark and light, only knows she's being guided out.

She wants to do it again.

She's guided through the gate, he laughing as much as she, and they're away, light blue sky above a layer of – he pulls her around and kisses her!

She freezes. His arms are about her, holding her close to his body and he's kissing her!

She pushes at him, ineffectually at first. She can't believe he's kissed her - just like he did when they'd –

But then she gets back, leaning supported in his arms, his face a blur surrounded by blue sky. She scrabbles for her gold framed glasses in her buttoned left breast pocket, manages to undo the button, yank the glasses out and pull them onto her face. His appears before her.

In the seconds since she's pulled back Tim's face reflects his realization of his impulsiveness. Siobhan stares up at him, utterly shocked. "_Timmy_!"

"I – I'm _sorry_, Shav - I don't kn–"

x

She pulls him hard into her own fiery kiss.

x

Neither thinks of how long they stand locked in one another's arms, their lips pressed together, sliding along one another's. They're barely breathing, aware of little but each other. They're only partially aware that it's a very long time indeed. Ultimately they pull away, each reluctant to do so, and only then does the world return.

"_Wow_!" Tim exclaims.

"_Yeah_!" Siobhan is breathless, laughing unsteadily, shaken to her core. "Wow!"

"Did we just–?" He can still barely believe it.

"I think..." she begins, her breath shuddering, "I think ..." she cannot order her thoughts, "I think we'd better talk!"

x

There's a bench nearby, and to it she directs him, sits him down but stands above him. She's caught her breath but by no means her composure. "Now Timmy, I think ... we're both agreed ... that what just hap - happened - is _wrong_!"

"Yes," he agrees, not entirely sure why he's agreeing, just that she's so emphatic that it seems a good idea.

"Nowwhateverjusthappened - I mean 'now, whatever just happened', we've got to be mature and adult about this, and not let our emotions get thebretter - the better of us. What happened - was _wrong_! You - I - you have already got more women dangling by a– a–"

She sighs sharply, wipes the sheen of perspiration from her forehead, turns it into Crossing herself. "I've gotta sit down," she says and collapses beside him on the bench, the stuffed cat clutched on her lap.

She blames herself more than him. She'd worn this outfit to 'tease' the only man she could get away with teasing. She'd intended to have some fun and to make a point – that she was more than just her external appearance and he should grow comfortable with seeing her as a person, as a _woman_.

Now she realizes the _point _had been made far too well. She'd been teasing him all day, having fun, but had been totally caught off guard when the inevitable had happened.

No, not just caught off guard, caught up in the moment and had utterly– thoughtlessly–!

"Timmy, right now you - you are with someone, and you have someone else pining for you and–"

"You kissed me too, Shav."

"Don't remind me." She sees his expression fall, sees the hurt in his eyes. "I don't mean 'don't remind me' like it's a _bad_ thing - I mean 'don't remind me' like I'm really – that is, I have to be – no, I mean I - I can – I'm -," she covers her face with her hands. "Oh, My _God_, I don't know _what_ I mean!"

She looks up at him again, having to find _some_ words, somewhere. "Timmy, I– I–" If things hadn't been bad before, they're now very bad. "Timmy, is it a bad thing when Agents Gibbs, DiNozzo, Lee and Officer David are arrayed staring at us like we've done something really wrong?"

x

Tim is taken aback by the odd question. "Yes, that would be a very bad thing. Why?"

"Look," she directs his attention to his left and he finds exactly the tableau she had described. But she'd left out one detail, Gibbs looks mad enough to chew neutronium. The only one who looks angrier than Gibbs is Ziva - that at least he can understand.

"Wait here," he leaves her, crosses the several yards to his waiting teammates. "Boss, what are–"

Gibbs pulls the cell phone from the holder on McGee's belt and opens it. "Turned on, McGee. What, are you just _ignoring_ it?" He presses the unit into McGee's chest - very firmly - and Tim catches it before it falls. 'Nine Missed Calls' the screen reports.

"I'm sorry, Boss. I must have had it on 'silent'."

"Not even 'vibrate'?" his hand comes up, whacks the back of McGee's head. "What are you doing all day?"

Tim looks back, sees Siobhan has risen though not approached, surprised distress on her face. He realizes she's never been witness to this form of 'alerting'. He turns back. "Boss, don't."

"Put your shirt on, get your car, drive Mother O'Mallory back to the Rectory and get to work before I show her something you _will_ regret."

He turns and stalks off, followed by Lee. Only DiNozzo and David delay a moment, their silent expressions disconcerting to say the least. Tony actually looks sympathetic, as though he knows or understands more than Tim does. But Ziva has her eyes locked upon the 'out of uniform' woman beyond him and there's no kindness in her eyes for either of them. She holds onto fiery anger and he fears she's seconds away from igniting.

Instead she turns sharply, follows Gibbs and Lee back toward the parking lot, leaving DiNozzo behind.

Tim recalls her having once demanded to know if there was anything going on between himself and his former girlfriend. She had taken his assurances that there was not. What must she be thinking now?

"How long have you been here?" He _has_ to know - did Ziva see–?

"Ziva spotted you on the bench."

"Thank God!"

"Why, what'd we miss?"

"Nothing, Tony," he declares firmly. "_A__bsolutely_ nothing."

"Okay." If this is the story Tim wants, he'll support it - for all the good it will do.

"What's going on? Today is my day off."

"Murder / suicide," he turns to the departing Ziva, then McGee and the distant Siobhan. "Maybe two _more_ murders."

xxx

Neither Tim nor Siobhan say anything on the trip back to St. Mary's, each uncertain where to begin. Tim is not just angry, this day had been an approved and cleared day off and he is justified in spending it as he wishes – uninterrupted. He angrier at the whole situation, not just about being embarrassed, not about having been made to look like a fool – he had been doing that expertly all on his own – but because Gibbs' intervention had interrupted and preempted their resolving this utterly indescribable situation.

x

Siobhan is equally uncomfortable. She doesn't want to give in to the trap and sin of anger but she is angry. She might have found the right words to say, eventually, after many more false starts and embarrassed blushes, but now she doesn't have the chance anymore.

The silence envelops them, cloying and choking and St. Mary's comes all too soon. She makes no move to get out of the car. He's parked, turned the motor off. She can't look at him, can't find the words.

"We have to talk," he reminds her softly.

"Yes." She grasps the door handle. "I can't think of what to say." She pulls on the handle, it doesn't release the door. She looks at him. His finger is on the lock control. "Timmy, please, I can't think."

"We kissed, Shav. We've gone a little beyond thinking."

"No, we _can't_. Whatever happened back there - what_ever_ happened - it was in the heat of thoughtless ... whatever ... and is and must always remain _Wrong_!" She turns to him, seeing hurt in his eyes. "Timmy, _please_. You're in a relationship with a woman who adores you. You don't want to hurt her, I know you too well for that. What happened - was a mistake - and it has to _stay_ a mistake." This time, when she tries to leave, he does not prevent her. But when she closes the car door she finds she cannot walk away.

He doesn't say another word. After a few silent moments he engages the engine and drives away, leaving the silent woman standing alone on the corner.

x

Siobhan stares after the car even after it has passed out of sight, unable to move. This has gone so wrong, shown her too many things she cannot deal with. She knows what she wants to do, what she cannot do. She'd only wanted a pleasant afternoon with an old, dear friend, away from the stresses of work and duty. She'd given in to the temptation to play some harmless flirtation on the one man in the whole world with whom she could get away with it. And then he'd kissed her!

As if that were not enough to completely disconcert her she had thoughtlessly given in to the dictates of her heart and kissed him _back_! And in a blissful, thoughtless minute it was as if the years they had been apart had never happened.

But then those years had come back - hard - slapped her back to reality, her place and her duty – and she knew she could not follow the dictates of her wild and unrestrained heart. No matter how much it hurt to do so she had to pull back, to deny – whatever – feelings she was feeling....

He is committed to another woman, she is committed to God and His Church, and despite all her insistences that she is equally a woman with a real human life, human feelings, desires and needs, _this_ is more than she can consider! She is not the wild, unthinking girl she'd been when they'd dated, in those glory days when they'd loved one another. She has commitments, _he_ has commitments, that cannot be broken, and she cannot consider anything but them.

"Timmy," she whispers sadly, looking toward her long-departed friend, "what happened - _whatever_ happened - was an accident. And it must never happen again."

xx

'Damn, damn, damn, _damn_, DAMN! _How _could I have been so _stupid_?' McGee resists pounding his fist upon the steering wheel only because he's Gibbsing back to Headquarters at 65 in a 40 zone.

'I _kissed _her. I kissed her like we were _teenagers_ again! I haven't kissed her like _that _in almost twenty years!' He won't even think of how that had felt, won't think how his body had responded to the beautiful woman in his arms. 'Am I nuts? Am I crazy? But she kissed _me _- and then said how wrong we are - it was.'

He forces himself to slow down, figuratively and literally. It won't do to be pulled over, even though he deserves to be arrested. 'She's right. I was wrong. We were wrong. Okay, we forgot ourselves. We can't ever - this can't ever - we can't ever do this again!'

xxx

Fifteen minutes later McGee arrives at his desk, wondering if the day, which had started out so well, could possibly get any worse and realizing it both can and is about to.

"McGee, get on that paperwork and that laptop and find out why Mary Joralemon blew her husband and herself away last night."

He'd had fragmented information from his cell phone's recordings of his partners' many attempts to reach him, which he had listened to on the way to the Rectory. But though he has many questions he decides that, seeing his boss' mood, now is not the best time to ask them.

Too many of his real questions have nothing to do with work.


	4. Cryptic

Chapter Four  
Cryptic

Leroy Jethro Gibbs sits at his desk, wondering about the nature of insanity. Before him are reports that say that Mark and Mary Joralemon were a content and happy couple and others from his team, from Ducky and from Abby that tell him that Mary Joralemon had pumped three bullets into her husband's skull before eating one herself. The most frustrating part about these juxtaposed reports is that they are both right.

But where, in these reports, is the reason?

"Why would she do it?" he muses aloud. He does not really expect to get an answer, but he receives one anyway.

"I think I found something," McGee reports. He has copied the contents of the Joralemons' computer onto his much higher capacity hard drive, mirroring even any hidden or encrypted files. The original machine is safely ensconced in the Evidence lockup.

Gibbs crosses the bullpen. "What?"

"I examined their written financial records, and then I hacked into their records. I first created a virtual–" he catches Gibbs look. "Well, anyway, I ran down the encryption and accessed their banking records with their on-line password. In their case it was almost pathetically easy."

Gibbs is relieved that he's on their side. "Isn't that illegal?" he asks, the mildness of his tone a warning of doom.

McGee looks up at him, flustered. "Well, I–"

Gibbs waves him off. Sometimes it _is _just too easy. "Never mind." He's covered this before and obviously must again - later. "What did you find?"

McGee returns his attention to the screen. "Nothing."

Gibbs raises his hand, annoyed at having been pulled out, but his strike never connects. McGee catches his hand without even looking back.

"Boss, you don't understand," he explains, letting go. "I mean I found _nothing_."

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?"

"Exactly that. Joint savings account empty; two individual savings, zero balances; checking nada; three IRAs bupkis; 401Ks completely drained; stocks sold; bonds sold, three credit cards completely maxed out at up to 19.8 percent interest.... Boss, _no one_ is that broke."

"Do you know what happened?"

"I do. Every account was closed out and every single penny was transferred to a foreign account between 10:23 and 10:41 p.m. last night."

"What account?"

"I'm still working on that, but I can tell you it's a Swiss Numbered Account. I should be able to pull the number up shortly."

"What are the chances it's theirs?"

"Slim to none. There's no reason I can fathom that will make sense. Whatever they wanted to do with the money, it's there now - and I doubt even a Will will be helpful."

"If they wanted to dispose of the money, sir," Lee observes, "a Will is far more efficient."

"How much money are we talking about?"

"In round numbers, over $98,000."

"Keep working on who it was sent to. They certainly weren't doing Estate Planning with it."

x

"You're up, DiNozzo."

"And ready to pitch, boss," DiNozzo comes out from behind his desk. "Captain Mark Joralemon USN is assigned to the Cryptology section in the Pentagon," he knows that will sound so familiar. "He took over for Captain Dorn after we took him down back in '06 for murdering Lt. Lara Hill. Joralemon's duties allow him to live at home rather than half a world away, though in the past year he's shipped out twice, once to Iraq and once to Afghanistan, spending a total of nine weeks, four days overseas."

Lee picks up the narrative. "Mary Joralemon nee Parker -

"Who says 'nee' anymore, Probette?" DiNozzo cuts in, annoyed at having been cut off. But Lee continues as though she hadn't been interrupted, having learned both techniques from him.

"- works for an Investment Counseling Firm, Sonuko Ltd., on 14th NW. They were a pleasant couple, friendly to the neighbors, never any loud or disturbing scenes. Apparently that was a concern of Mary, she occasionally inquired to make sure she wasn't disturbing the neighbors. That was noted in three of our interviews," she reminds Gibbs - unnecessarily.

"Any reason why she should be so concerned about disturbing the neighbors?" DiNozzo is thinking of any fights or 'disharmony' in the marriage, some reason she pulled a gun and blew out both their brains.

"No, s– I mean no. Apparently it was a concern of hers, but there never seemed to be much to it. They were reputed to be quiet, by all reports a loving couple. If they _were_ fighting, it never got out of hand. The neighbor on their left, a Mrs. van der Haven, is an invalid and rarely leaves the apartment. She says she never hears anything, which is why the gunshots had been so startling."

"Not startling enough to call the police, though?" Ziva observes, noting the comprehensiveness of the woman's report and the effective way she'd both silenced and upstaged Tony.

Michelle just shrugs, giving her a 'what can you do?' look. "Mary had expressed hopes to one nearby neighbor, as you know, of the prospect of raising a family, something both she and her husband were 'working on'.

"Which Doctor?" Gibbs asks Ziva, who'd been assigned the background records, but it is DiNozzo who steps in with the answer.

"Doctor Carolyn Marks, an 'Oh Bee slash Gee Why Enn' over on 12th NW. It might be worthwhile to pay her a visit, see how work was progressing."

"Who's that other Doctor in the bankbook?" Gibbs asks, moving to see DiNozzo's screen.

"Checkbook?" he consults his notes, "Doctor Sam Richards."

"What is he?"

"Psychiatrist. Sounds like she was working on both ends." Gibbs' hand comes up hard. "Thanks, Boss."

"All right, DiNozzo, you, Lee and I will take Richards. McGee, when you've tagged that money you and Ziva meet with Marks." He starts out of the bullpen. "Before we go, we'll see what else Abby has."

The Forensic Scientist's report - admittedly he'd demanded it twenty minutes after she'd received the evidence, had been sketchy. Lee and DiNozzo hurry to catch up.

xx

"I've got a tox screen for you," Abby tells them, her attention on the computer monitor on the freestanding workstation, "and it is super-negative. No alcohol, no drugs, no hallucinogens of any kind. I've spent the past three hours running every test I can think of. The woman was in her right mind, if you can call it that, when she blew hubby and herself to kingdom come."

"_No one_ is in her right mind when she does such a thing, Abby."

"Well, why ever she did it, I haven't found trace one of foreign chemicals in her blood. I'm still waiting on tissue samples, but the blood pretty much speaks for it."

"What if it's metabolized?"

She turns to DiNozzo, "Nothing metabolizes when you're dead, Tony, there's no metabolism - that's why they call it 'dead'."

Gibbs steps in. "Abby, a loving wife, by all reports, pumped three bullets into her husband's head and then blew her own brain out."

"Yeah, hinky, isn't it? Personally I feel 'Caf-Pow!' is better for getting the old brain cells firing, but to each her own.

"Now this," she goes over to her CD player and pops the top, ignoring the looks on her friends' faces. She takes out a silver disk, holds it in her latex gloved hand. The mirror polished surface catches every light in the room. "This is guaranteed not to fire a single brain cell. It's the one you found in the compact player under her pillow - I could tell it was hers because of hair follicles on the pillowcase and traces of perfume - apparently she liked to spice up her lovemaking."

She puts the disk back into the player and presses the button. Soft music fills the air. She gives it five seconds, then snaps the machine off. "Oh, yawnie. This stuff makes elevator music sound like the '1812 Overture'. She must have really had a sleep deprivation problem; five minutes of this and I'd be in Snoresville. You say she was trying to have a kid? My advice: less of this and more of the old 'bump and grind'."

xxx

"I've got the account number the money was shunted into," McGee calls across the 'bullpen' to Ziva, not looking away from his monitor screen, "but I can't identify who owns it." He's not surprised, the Swiss make a passion of their banking privacy. That's what makes their financial institutions so popular with the 'good', the 'bad' and Tony DiNozzo's father. "Do you think your contacts at InterPol will be able to help?"

"I doubt it." He jumps when she answers him from two inches from his ear. "I already know what they will say."

"Zee, will you please _not_ do that?"

"What' i wrong Tim? I thought you liked a woman sharing your 'space'." She glances around, it is a late Sunday afternoon and only one Team is on duty - theirs. "And we _are_ alone."

They are not completely alone, there are five other Agents in the large room attending to various duties. They are simply alone when referring to their own Team.

x

This is the first time all afternoon that they've had time for a private conversation, and she doesn't want to put his back up, in case what she had seen was as innocent as he'd maintained.

She had been jealous, furious with Tim, but has decided she can respond in one of two ways to having found him in the middle of a Festival with his former girlfriend while she was working, particularly after he had assured her there was nothing between them. She could follow her outrages jealousy or she can remind him of what he has.

Having no proof that anything inappropriate _did _happen, she chooses the latter.

But let her uncover proof that he is being unfaithful and he will _need_ a Priest!

Whether O'Mallory will need the same - well, that is for time to tell.

"I remember what happened the last time I was _sure_ I was alone. Gibbs cau–." He shuts himself up hard, realizing what he had been about to say and to whom he was about to say it.

He and Abby had exchanged a 'goodbye' kiss as the end of their relationship. It had gotten completely out of hand and when they had both been smacked back to reality they were seconds away from....

Gibbs had kept the secret of his indiscretion, Abby was certainly never going to say anything. But because he'd been concentrating on the Joralemon money trail, short though it was, he had almost–

x

"What did he catch you doing?" Ziva asks, still leaning close beside him, her lips an inch from his ear. She tries to keep a tone that says she would love to hear some juicy secret, while not altogether sure she will be happy knowing the answer.

"Nothing," he answers tersely. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for our visit to this Gynecologist?"

"It's Sunday, we're not going to find her at her office."

"Oh, right," he admits, realizing he has been totally thrown by everything that has happened today.

"Which is why I tracked her down at home. You aou're coming with me."

"Why me?" he asks, surprised at her tone.

"Because Doctors without personal ID on their phones get testy when you visit them at the dinner table, so you can protect me."

He laughs. "As if you need protection. Well, whenever you're ready…."

"I am ready. I have downloaded what little we need. I am just waiting until _you_ are ready."

"I'm ready," he tells her, opening the drawer in which he stores his shield and Sig.

"Good. While we are there, I should have her examine _me_," she tells him with a smile, leaving for the elevator. He freezes, turning toward her retreating figure, suddenly feeling very nervous.

"Ah, Zee?" She looks back over her shoulder, a maddening smile on her face. She knows he simply _cannot _call across the room to ask why she would feel the need to visit a Obstetric Gynecologist. She lets him trail after her, planning not to answer even in the elevator.

A '_crump_' so loud as to penetrate the walls like a thunderclap stops them. Even filtered through 'soundproofed' walls, neither can mistake the sound. A moment later the Emergency siren begins its throaty wail outside the building.

The two Agents exchange concerned glances; if the rarely activated alert is sounding so loudly, every siren on the Base must be screaming at once. An explosion audible in Operations must be very close or devastatingly powerful.

A few seconds later, even over the cacophony of wailing sirens they hear another muffled explosion. Both Agents rush to the bullpen. McGee attacks his keyboard before reaching his chair. He calls up the Base's 'Alert Status Report'.

Cameras cover the Navy Yard and, in emergencies, the priority shifts to the location of the alert. The image displayed on McGee's screen chills his blood.

"How bad is it?" Ziva asks from the other side of his desk.

He shifts only his eyes, unable to look away. "Very. Come on."


	5. Game Set and Match

Chapter Five  
Game, Set & Match

Only two square blocks from Headquarters is a portion of the large green bordered by Parsons Ave SE, Dahlgren Ave SE and Kidder Breeze SE. In response to the urging of members of the service who do not play baseball or other sports, a temporary Tennis Court has been erected for the month. It's mounted a foot off the grass by a multitude of supports, in deference to the groundskeepers who'd raised their own protests about a month without sun for 'their' lawn. The interlocking hardwood square yard segments provide a regulation surface which is surrounded on the lawn by rows and rows of folding chairs. Only backed up by temporary netting behind the players, it makes offside misses an audience participation sport.

On this sunny afternoon, several spectators observe a game from the white chairs that surround the court at a distance of ten feet. Two couples play a mixed doubles set and a ball careens wildly past the observers, bounces several yards further. Rather than slowing the pace of the game to retrieve it, Alec MacDiamond signals to let it go and steps off the elevated platform. He retrieves from the blue bag resting on one of the chairs at the side of the court a plastic topped tube and removes a fresh ball. He steps back up and returns to his position, ready to serve.

He throws the yellow-green ball upward, planning a trajectory that will just clear the net toward his opponent's weaker side. As it starts to descend he swings hard.

The explosion shakes the field in a deafening roar. Those closest to the platform are driven backward by the concussion, all others dive for cover. Bodies and chairs are blasted outward by the force. Sally MacDiamond sits up, stares at the charred and burning remains of her husband, but makes no sound at the devastating sight. All about the court spectators are picking themselves up, cell phones relay calls for help. All watch, breath held, anticipating the moment when reality will set in for the evidently devastated woman.

x

Sally stands, shaken, looking at the scattered burning debris of what had once been her husband, but she doesn't say a word, doesn't make a sound even as strident sirens split the air. The entire base is already going on Alert.

Several of the closer spectators are unable to move, others go to their aid, determining the extent of their injuries and relaying that information to approaching responders. As the stunned spectators watch, Sally walks off the platform past the burning body to the bag below the toppled white seat. She ignores all who offer aid, pulls out another ball, returns to the platform to stop within a few steps of the burning body. Witnesses look on in horrified disbelief as she throws the ball hard at her feet.

A second fireball erupts. Several people, anticipating the surreal situation, have already dove for cover and avoid the concussive force that knocks the unwary off their feet.

x

When the smoke begins to clear and people dare to look again, there's a smoking hole in the platform where the woman had stood. Burning, bloody fragments of her body, like her husband's, are scattered about the court, the surrounding grass and those unfortunate enough to have remained too close. Several spectators had been unable to move or find cover and were injured by the fiery forces of the explosions.

Director Jennifer Shepherd, having sought a relaxing diversion from her stressful duties, picks her head up and looks cautiously past the scattered chairs and the people just picking themselves up, ready to duck again if something else happens. As the smoke begins to clear, the widely scattered remains of burning bodies on the platform are like some nightmare beyond the scope of reason. She pulls her cell phone out of the pocket of her jacket and presses a speed dial combination.

xxx

The explosions taking place in the Navy Yard ensure rapid shutdown of the entire facility. The presence of the NCIS Director in the crowd ensures an equally rapid response from her Agency. Less than twenty minutes after the first explosion the field is cordoned off, all witnesses detained and Robert DiMarco, Kevin Lamb, Susan Bourne and Karen Levy are on site, accompanied by the Medical Examiner.

Jenny, debriefed first, switches hats, falls back on her own training as a Field Agent to assist in the interviews of other witnesses. Gradually the number of witnesses declines even as the Teams increase, evidence is collected and tagged, all possible photographic evidence is compiled. "This is too similar to the other case you're working on," she tells Deputy Special Agent-in-Charge Gibbs.

"Ya think, a husband blows up and the wife immediately follows?"

"which is why I want you to take the lead here too." She's not happy about being cut off - not that it ever seems to do any good expressing her dissatisfaction over that with this man. She could have turned the lead over to DiMarco, he and his team had been the first to respond and are spread out over the site. But since there's the apparent link in the cases, she decides to pursue that. "Any clues on that other case?" she asks, firmly in Director mode.

"Clues, plenty. Arrows, no. But once we get things together I figure we'll have plenty of street signs." He leads her over to where Ducky and Palmer examine the charred remains of the woman. "What do you have, Duck?"

"Two bodies, as you can see, both nearly incinerated. On our gentleman over there," he points to the still smoldering corpse, "his right arm and head will have to be located and reassembled; the burns to the legs are not _as_ severe, but that is relative. He suffered third degree burns over 90 percent of his body.

"Our other friend, having been virtually standing upon the bomb when it went off lost. As you can also see, both legs to her hips are destroyed, the initial blast consumed most of her body as well."

Search Teams have found fragments of bone and tissue far beyond the spectator area. The field is being cordoned off and will be minutely searched for more fragments of bodies and whatever explosive residue can be found. These bodies are reduced to various sized gory and charred fragments, an analysis of which will lead to determining the manner of explosives used.

"The explosions originated inside tennis balls," Gibbs tells him.

"A rather devastating service."

"He served. After the first went off, she took another from the bag and threw it down to her feet."

"Well, I expect Abby will be able to tell us quite a bit about the explosives. In the meantime," he looks at the blue bag laying under the seat several feet away, "let us remember that tennis balls come in threes."

xxx

Abby removes from a refrigerator with a pair of tongs a test tube containing a thick wet powdery substance. She hands the tongs to Tony, who examines the contents under the light.

"Why so cold?"

"You're looking at _n__itroglycerin_," she announces with relish.

Tony hands it back very gingerly, his face showing how little pleased he is by the too-late revelation. None of her five visitors look happy. She turns to Gibbs, ready to regale him.

"It's glycerin treated with a mixture of concentrated sulfuric and nitric acids, a heavy, oily, colorless or light-yellow liquid, of specific gravity 1.60, with a sweet, burning taste. It comes in two crystalline forms, one melting at–"

"Abby–"

"No, Gibbs, other things melt at Abby, this melts at between 37 and 56.3 degrees Fahrenheit, depending on the type." She openly ignores while secretly enjoying his glare.

"It burns quietly when heated in air, but explodes when heated above 218 Degrees Celsius or 424 Degrees Fahrenheit _or_ when heated in a closed vessel. It's _very_ sensitive to shock and therefore dangerous to transport, and is usually mixed with an inert, porous material such as sawdust." She taps the tube with a finger and DiNozzo and McGee try to hide flinches.

Lee holds herself as expressionless as Ziva. Normally her reactions are too easily read, so lately she's been practicing her Gibbs-face.

"It's a low explosive," Abby continues, enjoying their reactions, "which means the blast is measured in feet per second rather than thousands of cubic yards. When detonated, it produces about 10,000 times its own volume of gas."

"But its safe now, isn't it?" DiNozzo insists, wishing he were back at his desk.

"Well, Tony, if I were to drop this tube, we'd be singing arias with the Celestial Chorus. Except you, Ziva, you'd probably be doing a Cantillation."

Ziva looks at her rival sourly, not pleased with having been picked out for a cheap - however accurate - shot. Gibbs carefully takes the tongs from her hand, opens the refrigerator door and puts the tube back into the holder from whence it'd come.

"You have no sense of adventure," she chastises him, hands on her hips.

"I get my adventure in the Field. When I come in here, usually _I'm_ the one about to blow up."

This is enough to get her back on track.

x

"Yes, it was fine, as if I'd let you handle something dangerous, Tony. At that temperature it's about as inert as it's going to get. Kept in a closed bag in the summer sun for who knows how long, they're lucky it didn't go off in the car if they hit a bump, not that it would particularly matter. Early or late, it was the same fate."

The looks she gets tell her she's the only one amused.

"By the time they were used," she continues more soberly, "the Nitro was gaseous with just the sawdust lying on the bottom. I'm surprised he didn't notice: the ball should have been hard as a rock from the pressure. Before I cooled that one," she indicates with a nod the halved ball lying on the table, "it was."

"They brought it _in_ like that?" Gibbs is ready to explode without a bomb.

"I already _barbequed_ the Neo who brought it," she assures him. "The Bomb Squad only had two guys left in the lab, the others were outside on the field, so when it passed the x-ray, Rasmussen sent it up." She can see Gibbs' next stop is going to be the Bomb Squad and she has no intention of talking him out of it.

"So, how did they load it?" Tim asks, wanting to lower Gibbs' blood pressure by getting back to the narrative.

"Simple," she walks over to the table on which lie the two halves of the remaining yellow/green ball. She points into the interior of one of the halves. "They opened a tiny slit, probably in a refrigerated room, and when you squeeze the ends it opens up, and you load the mixture of sawdust and nitro. I found traces of superglue. The trick is, it has to be kept cold until used. Drop it prematurely and that Choir fills several more places."

"So what are you saying," Tony asks, "she kept it in the refrigerator until the game?" He finds the preparations she must have taken especially suspicious, wondering how her husband hadn't at least been curious.

"You should always keep your balls cool if you want them to stay fresh." Abby smiles, knowing there's no way Tony can retort to that line in Gibbs' presence and enjoying how the restriction takes its toll on him. "It's a good way to keep the balls in good condition, and wouldn't make anyone suspicious. So in a word, 'yes'."

"Okay, where did MacDiamond get the Nitro?"

"Well, that's the 64 million dollar question," her smile at Gibbs is met with a glare that says it all. She turns quickly to her keyboard. "And I shall get you the 64 million dollar answer." He continues staring at her, forcing her to admit: "Soon."

"McGee, find out."

"Err, yes, boss."

xxx

"Doctor, I was wondering…" Jimmy Palmer begins as they work on the charred half-body of Sally MacDiamond.

"Yes?" Ducky inquires, his attention on what remains of the woman on the table between them. Their voices are slightly distorted by the plastic shields covering their faces.

"Have you any plans for Tuesday evening?"

The question makes him pause, then look up inquiringly. "No, Mr. Palmer, not to my knowledge. Why?"

"Well, I'm planning a little party over at Ricardo's Tuesday evening at 7. I was hoping you'd be able to come."

"A party?" Jimmy does not ordinarily plan parties, at least not upon his own instigation.

"Yes, well, just a dinner, us - if you can make it - Special Agent Gibbs and all the rest of his team."

"Indeed?" Ducky regards him even more intently. "My boy, I'm impressed."

"Huh?"

"Well, I recall the occasion when you were unable to deal with the smell of working on a charred body such as these, to say nothing of thinking about food."

"Doctor…."

"Oh, of course I shall, my boy. Thank you for asking me."

"Thank _you_."

"Assuming, of course, that we are not elbow deep in bodies at that time."

xxx

"What can you tell us about the Joralemons?" Gibbs asks, hoping Abby has had enough time to determine something before getting hit with another mysterious set of deaths.

"I've done a dozen tests for drugs, but so far nothing. There are, of course, a few hundred to go, so you focus on the common elements to eliminate a couple dozen at a time. I'm focusing first on the hallucinogens. I'm starting with the theory her judgment was so impaired she had no idea what she was doing."

"And?"

Her shoulders slump, "Zilch. So far, she's clean. Ducky says he didn't find any needle marks either, not even one to show she was an occasional user, and the Forensics Team found nothing."

"Stumped?"

She turns to him in time to catch his disappearing smile. "I am _never _stumped," she declares archly. "Occasionally paused, once in a long while stymied, but never _stumped_."

"Suicide pact?"

She shakes her head, "He was naked, she was wearing a nightie. Of all the outfits I've ever heard of, this is the first time I've come across this particular combo. If they had a pact to do _anything_, I'm guessing suicide wasn't it."

No one has a reason to doubt her conclusion.

"Anyhow, there is no physical evidence that this is anything other than just what it looks like; a wife puts three bullets into hubby's head before eating the fourth. As to _motive_," she holds up her hands, "I'm stumped."

x

"This is getting to be too much," Gibbs declares as the team boards the elevator on the way back up to Operations. "McGee and Ziva, you have the MacDiamonds. DiNozzo and Lee, you take the Joralemons. I want to know everything about all four of them; what do they have in common?"

DiNozzo looks down at Lee, "I'll match you to see who gets Mary." An instant later the elevator jerks violently in his vision as a hand slaps the back of his head. "Thank you, boss."

"I set the teams for a reason, DiNozzo. I want you to track down his friends, find out if anyone knows anything about marital problems."

"Right, boss."

The elevator doors slide open and Gibbs, normally out first, hesitates for a half a second, allowing Lee to exit first, himself second. The other Agents, exiting the car, exchange mystified glances, noting once again something they had noticed several days ago.

Gibbs never lets anyone go first other than the Director and even they have had their momentary contests. For Gibbs to defer to someone, especially a Probationary Field Agent is unprecedented. For him to do so _twice_ now is noteworthy.

The looks the Agents exchange are intended to choose who is going to inquire about this strange behavior.

There are no takers.


	6. Omniscience

Chapter Six  
Omniscience

A short while after Gibbs, Tony and Michelle have departed for the Pentagon, Tim picks up his telephone in response to the beep of the intercom. "McGee."

"Hi, Tim," Abby's voice greets him happily, though it's a rare occasion when she's not happy. "Can you come down to the lab?"

He glances at his partner. Ziva is working on the trail of Mary Joralemon while he concentrates on Marc, but there is little on his trail that can't wait. Most of the search is automatic on his computer. "I'll be right down." Hanging up, he starts out of the bullpen. "I'll be just a few minutes."

Ziva looks up curiously. "Where are you going?"

"Abby wants me."

She frowns. "I have known _that_ all summer."

He hesitates, but only for an instant. He and Abby no longer have a relationship, and she had pulled back from her 'quest' to regain his affections, something she had never actually lost. Now they are just (affectionate) co-workers again, but he knows it will take time for Ziva to get used to this. Jealousy is still an issue, though the battles have quieted before they'd gone to the physical. He decides he has no time for this. Not only is it re-dredging a dead past, but if he is going to be back at his desk when Gibbs returns he can't waste time.

Shaking his head, he continues to the elevator, feeling Ziva's glare on his back.

xx

"Hi, Abs, what do you need?" he asks as he walks into the lab, finding her in her inner office staring intently at her computer.

"I'm helping a friend at NASA conduct an experiment and I need your help. I know how much you like high tech experiments."

Presuming the relevant information to be displayed on her screen he leans over past her. "Sure, what can I do?" She reaches up and pinches his right earlobe hard. "_OW_!" he withdraws quickly, startled and annoyed. "What did you do _that_ for? Was _that _the experiment?"

"Sort of."

"Well, you can tell him it hurts!" Feeling his ear, he's further annoyed to find something attached to the inner side of his lobe. It's tiny, feels no larger than a pimple. "What is this?" he demands.

"Don't pull it off," she admonishes, picking up a short strip of paper upon which three black 'dots' are affixed. "It's a sophisticated GPS system, the smallest one ever created, capable of obtaining a fix, from orbit, anywhere in the world."

"A _tracking_ system?" she nods, apparently oblivious to his tone. "Like you tag migrating birds or animals?"

"Oh, ever so much more sophisticated. This one is even capable of transmitting metabolic readings and can judge a patient's condition anywhere in the–"

"Abby, _why_ did you tag me?" His patience, already strained since being pinched, is rapidly wearing out.

"I needed a subject who gets around a lot and–"

McGee explodes, "- and because Gibbs couldn't find me _on my day off_ you decide to put a tag on me so you can trace me anywhere I am and I can't have _a__n__y_privacy?"

She backs away and he regrets his outburst when he sees the fright on her face. "Tim, I don't know what you're talking about - I didn't know about your day off or Gibbs looking for you - I just figured you'd like to help with a really cool scientific experiment."

"All right," he tries to placate her, backing off emotionally, "I _do_ like experiments but I also like being told about them and given the _chance_ to volunteer."

"I'm sorry, Tim, I should have said something but when they came they were so cool I just _had_ to try one and thought of you."

"All right," he says, "how long is this experiment for?"

"A couple of weeks–"

"_A_ _couple of weeks_? You're going to be monitoring me for a couple of _weeks_?"

"Not really, no," she holds her hands up, appealing to him for understanding. "It's not a 24/7 monitor, it only works when its turned on but when its on I can tell things like metabolic rates as well as find you. You lead a dangerous life and – I – don't want anything to happen to you."

Finally he understands, in her wistfulness forgiving her for her enthusiasm, "All right, we'll try it - for a while - but if I get the sense you're invading my privacy or I want to end it–"

"Tim, I _swear_, this is just a scientific experiment!"

"Okay," he doesn't want to get into an emotional outburst - again. "Is there any care I have to take with it?"

"None. Just forget about it. You can shower, do your normal routine, anything."

"All right." He checks his watch. "I have to get back. We'll try it for a while. Just, next time, no surprises, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, Tim."

"Don't thank me yet."

xx

When he returns to the Squad Room, only Ziva is present, the others have not returned. She looks up as he passes, an edge to her voice. "What did Abby want?"

"She wanted to pinch my ear." Stepping over to her desk, he shows her the tiny device adhered behind his earlobe, telling her the story.

"Sounds like it could be pretty useful," she says, her speculative her tone making him sorry that he'd agreed.

xxx

Gibbs, along with DiNozzo and Lee, arrive at the Pentagon. Gibbs feels quite put out by his inability to use the trip to also question the Psychiatrist who had treated Mary Joralemon. Sunday evenings are an inconvenient time to conduct an investigation, and either way there's rarely such a thing as an efficient one. He'll have to split the team tomorrow morning to run down testimony from the Psychiatrist and the Gynecologist. He doesn't believe, however, that much useful information will come from the Gynecologist, not after the explosive demises of Alec and Sally MacDiamond. That potential lead has been reduced to the importance of a 'double check'; to be pushed back further as changing circumstances demand.

Meanwhile, at least the Pentagon keeps reasonable hours.

x

Arriving at the site once described as 'four walls and a spare; a monument to the government mind', he leads his team through the facility. Gold badges do far better than plastic IDs in gaining admittance to the various facilities and they soon reach the Cryptology unit.

It's unchanged from the last time he'd seen it with McGee, not that Gibbs expected any differences. It's still small, tight, the space seems inadequate to the essential duties performed within.

Most of the activity takes place in a main room surrounded by several smaller cubicles, chalkboards and computers alike sharing the load, while several screens display a variety of information to every part of the room and the glass cubicles that surrounds it.

From the CO's office at the far left comes a bald black man wearing a Lieutenant's uniform and a dark mood. "Special Agent Gibbs, they told me to expect you and your Agents."

"Lieutenant Hall, is there someplace we can talk?" He already knows the answer, the question is a courtesy only.

"Captain Joralemon's office. I was just going through his files, making sure all sensitive material is secured." He leads Gibbs, DiNozzo and Lee into the inner sanctum and closes the door. There's one extra chair in the room, which he offers to Lee. She makes no move to accept it until Gibbs nods.

x

"What can you tell us, Lieutenant?"

"Far less than you could tell me if I were green enough to ask. I saw Captain Joralemon last on Friday evening, 1700. I locked up my desk, said a general 'goodnight' to everyone who was left. I got the call 0725; the Captain was dead and I'm acting CO for the duration." He looks from one Agent to the next. "I'll refrain from pointing out that every time I see NCIS in here we lose a Captain. I'm starting to wonder if it's a good idea to go for that promotion."

Gibbs half-smile is grim indeed. "Have you found anything among his records?"

"Nothing I didn't already know. The Captain made sure I was as up to date on things as he was. He traveled a lot more than Captain Dorn did, spent a lot of time overseas. He didn't _plan _for this, but he wanted to know that if something did happen, things would run smoothly in his absence." He steps around the desk and sits down. "So far as I can tell, there was nothing he was working on that was unusual. It's all Classified, but nothing I can find that would justify Mary pumping three bullets into his head."

This gets Gibbs immediate attention, though he does not allow it to show in his face. Just like the former investigation Captain Dorn had played so prominent a role in, nothing had been revealed about the Cause of Death. "How did you know what had happened to Captain Joralemon?"

"CNN."

"Lee." It is all the command he's willing to give. The woman pulls out her blackberry. It takes only a few moments of manipulation on the Internet for her to find the information. She nods to Gibbs, who pulls out his own phone. The early evening has just become a late night.

xxx

Two hours later they return to Headquarters, Gibbs in no kind humor. There is nothing he can do about the details of the case having been released, such as they are, by a neighbor of the Joralemons who had called CNN, visions of reward and fame in her eyes. He hopes she gets neither. The information the reporters have is sketchy, but its revelation has done too much damage.

Parking the car in the garage, he sends Lee and DiNozzo on ahead, leans back against his car, takes a few quiet moments to reassess the situation.

The quiet lasts until another car descends the ramp. Supervisory Special Agent Martine Joswig parks two spaces beyond his car and gets out; he has a brief moment to assess the black suited woman before she turns to him. At thirty nine, she has been an SSA for six years and leads an MCR Team with an impressive record of accomplishment. She had once been his 'Probie', the fourth member of Mike Franks' team.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asks, stepping up to him.

"They're not for ladies," he cautions.

"Who says I'm a lady?" She smiles at his glare. She's known him before he'd practiced it. "Things that bad?"

"Thanks to a neighbor of shooting victims, CNN knows as much about our case as we do."

"What do you know?" In brief phrases he gives her a capsule synopsis of the situation. "Sounds like fun. Let me know if you want my people to take a hand."

This is just enough of an out of the ordinary offer to get his attention. "Think your people can do better than mine?" he asks with no heat.

"A hundred says they crack this first."

This is fun. "Pretty sure of yourself."

"I always have a lot of faith in them. You think of your people as the best, mine _are_. Take Melanie, for instance, not that I'd ever let her go."

That he can appreciate. He feels the same way about his own people. "Good, is she?" He's heard about Melanie Kelman.

"Let me put it to you this way: there's a difference between 'brilliant' and 'dazzling'. Your McGee's only brilliant."

"Maybe we should put them together on this, see what happens."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate the challenge - though I suspect he'll come out of it with a bruised ego. Let's see what happens: that hundred on Melanie."

x

She hasn't changed, he thinks. She'll always bet a hundred on what she considers a 'sure thing', which is why he knows when to take her up. She may win against people who do not know her as well as he does, she's not going to get him. Then again, this is a challenge he shoildn't let go unanswered. However: "Back down, kid, you're not on duty until ...." But he realizes she's been on duty for quite some time. Beta Shift runs from 1600 to Zero Hours, and the summer sun had set while he was driving back. But she doesn't 'notice' his gaff.

"I'm here to see the Director – about Melanie, actually," she tells him.

"Her 'dazzle' land her in trouble?" He knows this isn't the case. Not only would she not be so open in her boasting, but if there was a problem he'd only hear of it if, as Deputy SAIC, he had to.

"I'm promoting her to Senior Field."

This is the first thing she's said that _does_ surprise him. "Over Larsen and Templeton?"

"I don't use distinctions between them in rank, but I feel there's seniority and then ability; Kelman can handle it."

"Good _luck_," he warns her. As SSA it's her choice how she structures her Team, but Kelman's three years behind the badge might not be looked upon well by agents several years her senior.

xxx

"CNN? You are kidding." Ziva exclaims when DiNozzo tells her and McGee about their unpleasant visit to the Pentagon. "I expect Gibbs had a bull."

Tim t inks this one over. "A cow?"

"Yes, a cow."

"You're developing a real talent for understatement, lady," DiNozzo tells her, looking about. "He was purple." He checks the room again. "Believe me, a Gibbs who's been 'checked' and can't do a thing about it is not someone I'm comfortable traveling next to in a car for a half hour." He glances around again. "I just hope this cheers him up," he holds up the report about the gun he had found upon reaching his desk, then checks the room again.

"Tony, what are you looking for?" Ziva demands, quite tired of this.

"Gibbs. Though I don't know why I bother; he knows what I'm saying whether he's here or not."

"Come on, Tony, you're getting paranoid." McGee scoffs.

"I swear, the man is omniscient. He knows when you're not doing your job."

"Now you're moving into neurotic."

"When you've been 'Gibbs-slapped' as often as I have - which is more than the three of you Probies put together I might add - you learn to watch your back. I swear, it's like in that old 'Kung Fu' novelization where Master Han used to train young Caine to know when someone's attacking from behind by -." the 'ding' of the elevator cuts him off, he applies diligent attention to his computer screen seconds before Gibbs enters the 'bullpen', carrying one of his ubiquitous large cups of coffee.

"Never been 'omniscient', DiNozzo," he says as he passes on his way to his desk, "but I have been omnipotent a few times. And no cows. What do you have on the gun?"

DiNozzo's 'told you so' glare at the others almost makes him late in picking up his cue.

x

"The gun was registered to Mary Joralemon la t year." DiNozzo reports as crisply as he can manage, bringing over the paper. "She had three 'sessions' at the range in Norfolk, not a thing since. If she didn't practice anywhere else it looks like she just had the initial training not long after she got it, then put it away in the drawer."

"Let's see what Abby has off the gun."

"Before you do that," McGee calls, cutting him off, "I've got something really 'hinky'."

"You've been hanging around Abby too long," DiNozzo comments.

"Yes," Ziva agrees, but there's a lot of weight to that that Gibbs doesn't want introduced.

"What is it, McGee?" he asks sharply, still aggravated at the break in security.

"Remember you told me to work on whoever owns the Swiss Account that paid Jack Carson for the PDC Mark 9 plans and specifications?"

There can be only one reason for bringing up that Cold Case now. "The Joralemon and MacDiamond money is going into the same account?"

"Nope," McGee tells them with a self-satisfied smile, "that account ends with 04638, the Carson one was 04637."

"Well done. Find the owner."

McGee turns to the screen, not wanting his eyes to betray his thoughts. It'd be easier to book a pre-dawn Audience with the Pope. _Pius X_!

x

This changes everything. Two disparate cases have a disquieting tie, and finding that tie has become of prime importance. But first, there is an interrupted line of research to pursue.

Gibbs touches a control on his desk, then crosses the room and picks up the remote control to the plasma screen. Abby's lab appears on it from the view of the overhead camera. She's sitting on a stool looking into a computer monitor, one hand holding her head up. "Abby?" She just tilts her head enough to look up at them, her head still supported on her hand. In the background plays music much softer than the 'Mysterious of the Dark's' usual fare. "Tell me about the gun."

"A cylindrical cartridge usually containing 75 percent potassium nitrate, 15 percent charcoal and 10 percent sulfur and a projectile, formerly rounded lead but now usually conical shaped alloy," she says, her tone distant, "is held in place before a striker. When you pull the trigger a sharp impact on the firing pin ignites the gunpowder and the rapidly expanding gasses force the cartridge along the barrel at high speed."

Gibbs looks at each of his Agents and suspects their expressions to be little different than his own. He turns back to the woman, "Are you trying to be funny?"

She shrugs vaguely, "I don't think so." She gets off the stool, takes a step and staggers to her right, travels three steps before righting herself. "Whoa, who tilted the building?"

"Abby, when was the last time you slept?" She looks vaguely at the camera as the seconds tick by, "_Abby_!"

"I'm sorry, what was the question?"

"Go home. Wait," he amends an instant later; "_Stay_ there, I'll come down and drive you."

She salutes him - with her left hand. "I'm not so think as you tired I am."

x

He switches off the screen and turns to the others. If Abby is falling down and he must drive her home, how little work will he get out of his team tomorrow if he has them hunting down Swiss Accounts this evening? "Go home."

No one argues with him. However, before they depart, Tim says; "Boss, there is something I have to report." When the others hesitate, quite displeased with him, he finishes, "not about this case."

x

When they're alone McGee makes his disquieting report about the 'tag' Abby had attached to him as part of the experiment for her 'NASA friend'. He doesn't do it in complaint, but as part of his duty to report anything that might affect the team. It is well that he had not been seeking sympathy, for Gibbs' response is particularly unsympathetic.

"Good, maybe now I'll be able to find you when you're _supposed_ to be working."

'Sometimes,' McGee reflects, 'following the rules just doesn't pay.'


	7. The Fire Wherein We Burn

Chapter Seven  
The Fire Wherein We Burn

Jimmy Palmer meets Jennifer and Cynthia on the platform on the way to the elevator. The pair are 'shutting down' late in the evening and their expressions telegraph their surprise. "Director Shepherd, Cynthia, may I have a moment?"

"Of course;" Jenny tells him. It's unusual for her to encounter him outside Autopsy, realizing she'd long come to associate her time with him with Working Hours. To be intercepted by him on their floor is particularly notable.

"I was hoping - that is, I'd like to invite you - _both _of you - to dinner."

Jenny smiles, surprised, "Thank you," she glances at Cynthia "but aren't you biting off more than you can chew?"

"No! I mean - that is - I–"

She stops him, "I was teasing you, I'm sorry. Please, you were saying?"

"That is, I'm throwing a dinner party Tuesday evening, and I would really like it if the both of you can come – ab, I – er – I mean attend."

The first things that come to mind are the demands of the various cases on her 'plate', but she does not want to put him completely off. The poor lad, as Ducky might phrase it, is flustered and blushing enough already. She looks to Cynthia, receiving her silent assent. "We'd love to. Thank you."

"Thank _you_! It'll be great!" he enthuses.

"Where and when?"

"Ricardo's, 7:00 Tuesday."

"We'll try to make it," Jenny promises, not wanting to completely commit herself yet not wanting to put him out either. When he's gone, having departed as precipitously as he'd arrived, she turns to her assistant: "Do you know it?"

"I've been there." Cynthia's eyes go to the door Jimmy'd used. "Upscale, live entertainment better than Karaoke quality. Sam took me there a couple of months ago. Wear the gown you wore to the Marine Birthday Dinner."

"_That_ upscale?"

She nods. "I hope he has a bonus coming."

xxx

Later that evening Jimmy and Michelle snuggle on his couch listening to music, most of it romantic, indulging in a little singing when they're not kissing. The last strains of 'Tonight I celebrate my love for you' have just faded, they having joined Roberta Flack and Peabo Bryson in a 'doubles duet'. As the music turns to a piano rendition of the 'Lonely Man Theme' from the 'Incredible Hulk', Michelle looks up from within the crook of Jimmy's arm.

"Can I tell you my fantasy?"

"_Yeah_!"

She digs her elbow into his ribs, barely a touch. "Not that kind, dingbat." She cannot help but grin though, having known where the word would send his mind. "I've always wanted to sing like that."

"You do sing like that," he tells her. She has a wonderfully sweet voice, one he considers far better than Flack's, and always will.

"No, I mean like on stage. I've _always _wanted to get up on stage and perform. I sometimes fantasize, well, I dream I have all my friends around and I just get on the stage, grab a microphone and shock the hel - heck out of them."

"You should do it." But she shakes her head. "You have a beautiful voice."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"I can't carry a tune in a bucket. 'Sides, I'm too much of a coward."

He flexes his arm muscle, bounces her head. "Camel patties."

"It's true. I can face down a Sex Slaver, an Assassin or even an infuriated Abby Sciuto or Jethro Gibbs – now. But put me in front of people and tell me to sing and I turn into the Ice Queen."

"Bet you won't."

"Know I will." She sighs, cuddles closer to him. "But it's no bet - I am never going to get up on a stage in my life."

He shrugs. "Pretend you're here," she shakes her head; "Want to hear my fantasy now?"

"Sure."

"I have the Ice Queen on my couch," he shifts aside, comes around to her, comes down to her lips, "and I thaw her out…."

xxx

McGee, unable to sleep, drives the less crowded side streets, his body on automatic as his mind wanders to the turmoil of the day. He glances to his right as he crosses an intersection and his mind slams to full attention. But it's not an approaching car that slams him to reality, it's a burning building!

The third house on the right side is ablaze. Fire leaps from the upper story windows and two of the lower. Several people are gathered across the street, two struggle on the lawn.

The woman shrieks in panic, the man, possibly wounded, tries to hobble back into the inferno.

All this Tim's mind photographs in the first instant as he twists the wheel in a screeching turn, arrows across the street from the conflagration and stops near the onlookers. Leaping out, he demands of the growing crowd; "Has anyone called it in?" He sees one of them nod at the same moment the woman's shrieks resolve into words.

"My Baby! My _Baby_!" He turns to the struggling couple; the man restrains his wife from reentering, his own clothing burned and smoldering; Tim doesn't think; he runs. In a moment he is beside the struggling pair.

"Who's in there?" he demands.

"My daughter," the man exclaims. This close, Tim can see burns beyond the smoldering clothing. "She was right behind me!"

Tim determines the 'baby' is figurative. A fireball explodes through the front door and the woman shrieks, collapses to the grass, unable to fight the man's strength. Tim hears distant sirens; they're perhaps thirty seconds away, but thirty seconds is an eternity. Pulling a small black maglight from his pocket , Tim decides _this_ is the stupidest thing he has ever done!

x

The billowing smoke covers the upper half of the open doorway. Flames surround the front door but do not block his path. Twisting the light to engage and narrow its beam, he runs, takes a deep, nearly lung-rupturing breath and leaps through the burning door.

He allows himself to fall forward, crouches low, crawls through the crackling blackness that smothers the light of flames. He sweeps the powerful beam. Smoke obscures all but the bottoms of furniture. He holds his breath, agony fills his lungs. If he breathes the smoke he'll choke, lose himself in the strange, invisible room. If the daughter was 'right behind' her father, she might not be–

There! A hand, five feet further in! It's barely discernable in the smoke. He rushes forward and grabs the girl's shirt. A portion of his mind says 'twenty'. Lungs bursting, he heaves with all his strength, drags the young woman by her shirt. Legs driving hard, he aims for the door with enough force to crash through a line of linebackers. Thought will all fear, he won't think. He drags her along the carpet and out the door. Shrieks and cheers drown the crackle of flames, the wail of arriving fire engines.

Ten feet from the door, in the clear air, he stops pulling, falls upon the ground, gasps deeply of the clean air. He leaves the woman to her hysterical mother's care and that of the firefighters, only gasps in air.

He's hauled to his feet and has a glimpse of a relieved, ecstatic face before he's pulled into a tight, back-thumping hug.

x

The rest of the evening is filled with the Firefighters extinguishing the blaze, EMTs working on and successfully reviving Kimberly Vitale and a plethora of Newspaper, Television and Radio Reporters. Mingled with these are the calls upon his cell phone as the live images go out and everyone wants to interview the 'mysterious hero'.

For once, the news is not filled with reports about a 'Federal Agent'.

x

When Tim can finally disentangle himself it is true night, he has already answered nearly a dozen cell phone calls and a thousand reporters' questions. On the way home he answers three more calls. There are nine messages on his home voice mail and, by the time he unplugs his phone and removes the battery from his cell, he figures he's told the short story forty times and just wants to go to _bed_!

xxx

Jimmy Palmer's yell reverberates through the dark bedroom as he sits bolt upright. Michelle Lee reaches under her pillow and yanks out her Sig, presses the safety off and aims it - at nothing.

The bedroom drapes that ensure their privacy during lovemaking now keep the room shrouded, but she can see well enough to know they are alone.

"I'm sorry, 'Chelle," he says when she turns to him, lowering the gun, "it was a nightmare."

"Must have been some nightmare," she slips the safety back on and pushes the weapon back under her pillow.

"Since when do you keep a gun under your pillow?" he asks, thinking of all their frenzied 'encounters'.

"Since I started my 'advanced' training with Ziva. She's taught me a lot, things they don't always emphasize in our 'official' training, things they _do _stress in the Mossad." She catches the look in his eyes. "But don't worry, I only put it there after you go to sleep."

"Thanks." He's only a little bit relieved. "When did you start training with Ziva?"

"Oh, a while ago, during that Kane case. I think it was because of a connection she felt when she found out I can speak some Yiddish."

"I'd been meaning to ask you about that."

"It's only a smattering, but we have endless fun commenting on Special Agent DiNozzo from opposite sides of his desk when he has no idea what we're saying. He _thinks_ we're talking about him, but he can't be sure. But if he ever knew _what_ we were saying...." Her smile disintegrates. He'd distracted her, but her brain has caught up with her blasted-awake body. "Enough of that. Speaking of 'sleep'," she says, laying down and tugging him down beside her, cuddling close to him, "what's wrong?"

"Just a nightmare," he says evasively.

She won't let him escape so easily. "You said that already."

x

He shakes his heaf. Hen cannot tell her this dream. He'd been back in the hospital during the dénouement of that same fateful 'Kane case'. But it was Michelle, not Megan Wood, laying helpless on the bed before George Franklin. Franklin held again that fragment of a chair-cum-stake and Jimmy again had Michelle's gun.

But this time he'd hesitated too long, unable to shoot the man in the back - again. In that second of hesitation, conscience at war with morality against the desire to save a life - _Michelle's_ this time - Franklin had rammed the wood through her chest.

Jimmy had fired then, not twice but five times into the man's back. This time it hadn't been salvation, it was rage that made him fire.

But instead of going to Franklin to demand reasons, he'd stepped over, aimed the Sig and pumped one last bullet into Franklin's head. His cranium exploded in a wash of gore.

Michelle had sat up then, blood flowing from her chest and back where she had been completely impaled by the wood, and fixed him with a sepulchral stare.

"_Murderer_!" she'd accused. His scream brought him awake.

No, he couldn't tell her _that_.

Unfortunately, lately there was a wealth of other nightmares from which to choose.

x

"I dreamed you got all dressed up in this Oriental outfit, hair pulled back, lots of make-up, and as I was getting off the elevator you were getting on with the other Agents and the doors closed before I could say anything."

She leans back so she can see his eyes. She can't keep the nightmare out of hers. "Honey, I hate to upset you, but that actually happened."

"You didn't come back from that mission;" his voice is haunted. "Actually you _did _come back - on Doctor Mallard's table." He can no longer meet her eyes. "I had to do your autopsy."

"Did I at least die well?"

He sits up, distress leaving him vulnerable to outrage. "This isn't _funny_, 'Chelle!"

"No, but as you can see," she lifts the light blanket to display her unmarked, nude body, "I'm alive and well." She smiles seductively, "and if you were any kind of gentleman, you'd come down here and apologize for waking me up."

Jimmy doesn't hesitate, anxious for anything that would chase the specter of death from his dreams. He doesn't tell her that over the past week he had dreamed of her dying in action _nine times_. He'd awakened each time to regret at having pushed her so hard to get back into the field.

'I must have been out of my _mind_,' he thinks, clinging to her with more force than necessary, trying to drive away the demons. His movements are more frantic than loving, desperate to drive the fears away at all costs. He tries to lose his mind and his memory and his fears in wild, out of control passionate frenzy with Michelle. '_Why _did I do it? I should have had her stay in Legal where she was _safe_!'

x

Michelle holds her hand to the back of his head, fingers curled in his short blond hair. She holds his face to her shoulder, doesn't let him see her face. She keeps her hand clamped over her mouth, concentrates on pretending the sounds he forces from her are cries of pleasure. She won't let him see how much his grip hurts.

xxx

In the dark and lonely, tree-lined back road on the Virginia border Susan Zahn slows her car. She stops under thick, overhanging branches that block out the waning moonlight. A black car is fifteen feet before her, its lights off. It is barely visible; she might never have seen it had she not expected it. She's been here three times already. When she turns off her own lights the road goes black.

Susan gets out of her car, trembling in fear. She's always afraid of him. When she closes her door and the interior light goes out the blackness smothers her. Thick clouds obscure the moon, block the stars. The crickets and other night insects resume their interrupted songs, uncaring of her danger. She stares intently at the car, wonders why he doesn't come out.

Though her night vision improves she can only see it slightly better. Her fear gets worse, she wonders why he just doesn't get it over with.

"You have the money?" Susan shrieks as the voice fills her left ear. She whirls and a blinding light sears her eyes. She turns away with a pained cry, bends low and covering her wounded eyes.

"Stop being a wimp and give it to me."

Susan forces herself to straighten, to turn, but the intense light forces her to squint tightly, her eyes almost shut. She can't see him, the man can do anything he wants to her.

From a back pocket of her jeans she pulls out an envelope. It's snatched from her hand and the light is gone from her tearing eyes. Night-blind, she sees nothing. Strain as she does, she can't find him.

The light again blasts her eyes; "There's less than a thousand in here."

How does he know? Can he see in the dark? "Please, I couldn't _get _the rest–"

"_Two_ Thousand a month. You didn't forget."

"Please, you have seven thousand. I don't _have_ any more!

"Take out a loan."

"Please! Mmy daughter, she needs it! She needs a Doctor - retinitis pigmentosa. The Insurance isn't covering it all! She's gonna go _blind_!"

"Then you can be happy - she won't be able to see them. Everybody else, however...."

"PLEASE!"

"The rest by Saturday night, right here."

"I can't - I don't _have_ it! I _can't_! I have to take care of my daught–"

"Saturday, or every guy in her school finds a set in his locker come Monday morning. Every one of your students. Then he Newspapers get it and you can kiss your sweet Tenure goodbye."

"No! Please! I'll do _anything_ - give you anything - you can have me, do anything you _want_! Just–"

"You think I'm an idiot? You open your legs then you get up, go to the cops, cry rape and they have my DNA. No physical contact, that's the rule. Besides, with your money I get all the snatch I want." He backs away, the blinding light receding but not leaving her eyes. "Get the other thousand by Saturday."

"I CAN'T!" she cries frantically, "I don't HAVE IT!"

"Get it."

"HOW?"

"You were willing to do me, you figure it out, babe. You're still pretty - you can do 200 bucks at a time."

"_WHA_?" She's appalled, cannot believe he'd said it!

He is getting in the car, the light jiggling, sometimes blinding, sometimes black. Desperate, she runs to the car as she hears the door slam and the light is gone. "PLEASE!" she begs, her hands finding the door handle, her eyes blurred from tears, "Have _MERCY_!"

"Mercy's for suckers. Suck a few and have my money here on Saturday."

"PLEASE!" The car roars to life and the rear wheels shriek as the car launches under her clinging hands. Mad with terror and grief, Susan tries to hold it back and is pulled off her feet.

She falls to the ground as her grip slips and she rolls to a painful stop, laying face down in the dark. She looks up into the inky blackness, hearing the unlit car roar away, unable to see anything at all.

"Please," she begs, tears flowing down her cheeks, "come back! Please... have mercy ... have _mer - cy_!" She buries her face in her hands, crying brokenly, not caring that she lies face down in the middle of the black road. Even the night insects frightened into silence, her sobs are her only company.

xxx

Dawn. The sunlight peeks through the closed drapes. Michelle Lee lies upon the bed, Jimmy's arm draped across her bare chest, hers wrapped about that arm as she thinks.

Last night had been so different. Their normally frenzied lovemaking had taken a more urgent, more tumultuous turn for him. Jimmy had clung to her as though a drowning man to a life raft, desperately trying to drive away demons in the act of love. He'd held her tightly, too tightly for her comfort or even her pleasure. In him had been a terrible need to exorcise horrors he won't talk about. In his lovemaking had been a wild, crazed need to drive the nightmares away. In the mad, frenzied thrusting she normally so enjoyed there was less shared pleasure and more the need to chase away nightmares.

He doesn't have to tell her about the nightmares, she knows about them all too well. She's been awakened by so many of them when they slept together. She's sure there are many more when he's alone. She'd asked about them and he'd told her, but his answers were always too superficial. He never admitted the horrors that drove him.

It always came back to George Franklin and Megan Wood and that morning in the hospital. Franklin had been trying to murder Megan, Michelle had tried to stop him but, injured as she had been, she was unsuccessful. She'd fallen under the impact of a chair smashed against her body and lost her gun. Jimmy had picked it up and it came down to Franklin, Jimmy, a broken piece of the wooden chair to be used as a stake, that gun and a decision.

Jimmy had tried to stop the man with words, and finally had only one choice. To save Megan Wood's life, Jimmy had to shoot.

Franklin had died - and for Jimmy Palmer everything changed. His friends could tell him over and over that there had been no choice, that he had saved Megan's life, but Jimmy knew his truth.

He had murdered a man.

x

He stirs, his eyes open. Michelle wonders what he can see without his glasses. He reaches for the night table beside her, but in doing so he slides his arm along her chest, his arm teasing her nipples, so she can tell he can certainly see something. He pulls the glasses on, focusing on her.

"Good morning," she says softly.

"Morning, 'Chelle." he kisses her as softly as his busses last night had been desperate.

"Sleep well?" There had been no more awakenings during this night, no frantic movements or sudden cries.

"I don't know; I was asleep."

She chuckles. "Idiot." He puts his arms about her, turns her to him, and despite how little she'd enjoyed this night's second lovemaking - her responses had been a sham intended to fool him and salve his ego - she hopes there will be another night like this one, another night _without _the nightmares.


	8. Eagle, God and Mystery

Chapter Eight  
Eagle, God and Mystery

When Tim McGee walks into the Squad Room it is to a sudden, almost embarrassingly enthusiastic ovation. All his friends throughout the huge room surround him, shaking his hand, slapping his back, the women hugging him - that part he does not mind at all. His own team hangs back, remains in the 'bullpen', allows McGee to enjoy his laurels and praises before eventually joining them. They then take the opportunity to lay it on as thick. Ziva and Michelle hug him, that he doesn't mind either.

"You did a good job, Probie," DiNozzo grants as Gibbs shakes his hand. "The family has been in touch already, their daughter has recovered, smoke inhalation only. They're falling all over themselves in gratitude. The father, Theodore Vitale, is an Independent Film Producer, owns a studio off the Washington / Virginia 'border' and is looking to give you a huge reward."

"Tony, I can't take a reward," McGee protests.

"I knew you couldn't, that's why I gave him my account number," that gets Tim's full attention, "just kidding. But I wouldn't turn him down too fast. You could probably get a movie deal off one of your books."

This sours the moment. "Tony, that'd cheapen her life."

DiNozzo realizes he'd gone too far this time. "Yeah, I know, kid."

"Anyway, what happened?" Michelle asks, trying to salvage the moment. "Tell us everything!"

McGee had already done so last night with each of them, but recognizes this is more for their colleagues surrounding them, all of whom anxiously await the dramatic details. "There's not all that much. I didn't do anything more than anyone else would have done. I held my breath, went in low under the smoke, grabbed and yanked. It was all over in under a minute."

"I told you he'd be too modest," DiNozzo announces expansively to the gathered Agents, his arm about his friend.

"_TIM_!" An excited cry from the closing elevator doors herald's Abby's arrival. In true Sciuto style she cuts through the crowd which wisely gets out of her way, dashes up and throws her arms about him, hugging him ecstatically with far greater abandon than anyone else had allowed. "You were so _Heroic_!"

"Well, I wasn't really," he says, the attention starting to grow overwhelming, "I–"

"_HEY_!" Gibbs voice cuts through the room, "is this a workplace or a fan club?" Abby withdraws, the rest of the Agents start to drift away, "McGee, where's your '1499A - Off Duty Action taken by an Agent on Unassigned Incident'?"

"Well, boss, you see - that is I–"

"You went to bed, didn't you?"

"Well, er, you see, I - er–" he swallows hard. "Yes."

Gibbs smiles. "So would I."

He had recognized that the hero-worship was becoming too much for McGee, this was his way to stop it and get everyone back to work. He reaches up but far from a slap to the back of Tim's head, he pats it instead. "You're a good man, McGee - just watch that you don't risk your life again in proving it."

"Yes, boss. I mean, no, boss."

"All right," he announces, clapping his hands sharply, "let's get back to work. There's still that Psycho-babble guy to see."

"Dr. Samuel Richards."

"On your Six, boss," DiNozzo declares for all of them as their gather shields, guns and other tools, ready to move out.

xxx

LeeAnn Rynager presses a small white button next to her computer keyboard in response to the chime of the doorbell. A soft buzz from the wooden door across the office indicates the lock's deactivation and the door is pushed inward to admitting a tall, salt and pepper haired man clad in a black windbreaker with an embroidered representation of a gold shield at the left breast. He has the look of eagles about him, deep piercing eyes that seem to see into her soul. Tall, erect, commanding, clearly a Leader in any situation he finds himself, able to command men - and women - with equal facility; the kind of man who clearly improves with maturity, who at seventy will undoubtedly turn heads as sharply as he does now.

With him are two men, equally tall though younger, _possibly_ more virile. They also wear the same design of black jacket well tailored to each of their impressive physiques, each bearing the representations of gold shields upon their left breasts.

The man on the left is almost classically handsome in a Roman god sort of way, with deep brown hair, piercing eyes and the body of a trained Athlete, one certainly able to hold his own on any field - or off it. The other, on the right, is younger but very pleasing, with the power and stamina of youth. Closely cropped brown hair and a look in his deep green eyes she would love to lose herself in that tell LeeAnn that there is far more here than meets the eye and she must search deeply to uncover all the depths of his treasures.

The treasures of all three men need searching out and she is prepared to explore all their strength and power, wondering which of them - the Eagle, the God or the Mystery - will prove the most staggering and memorable.

Accompanying this collection of luscious male pulchritude are two women.

x

"Yes, gentlemen, what may I do for you?" Looking them over, she can see that the classic Roman god on her left clearly has the right answer in mind.

"We'd like to see Dr. Richards," the Eagle answers her in clear, no-nonsense tones. He identifies each of his team.

Rynager has already seen that these five, all dressed in identical jackets, are not here for Group Therapy, though she seriously plans a group activity with three of them.

"I _am _sorry, there's little time. Dr. Richards is expecting a client in a few minutes. However…" she presses the intercom button on her desk and relays the message.

She is not disappointed that the Eagle, of those he could leave outside with her, selects the Mystery as well as smaller woman. This is one Mystery she looks forward to uncovering.

x

Samuel Richards' inner office is carefully designed to be soothing and non-threatening. His desk, rather than being a huge mahogany structure, is a clear pane of Plexiglas containing a computer tucked away to the far right corner, a telephone at the far left and a pen and pad before him. The message this gives is that there is nothing to distract his attention from his client.

The ubiquitous couch at the right side of the room is cushioned fabric rather than leather, with an easy chair placed out of sight beyond the couch's head. Suspended above the couch, carefully set in sight, hangs a colorful if overlarge butterfly.

Richards himself is forty-one, black hair brushed straight back from a thin, angular face. His only notable adornment is a large ruby ring on his right hand. DiNozzo puts the tailored blue suit at easily a thousand dollars.

He is, they've also determined, on the list of certified and approved practitioners, meaning he's a private consultant who can treat Navy and Marine Personnel for free and bill Uncle Sam.

Gibbs has no doubt he bills Uncle Sam quite enough to afford the suit.

x

"I'm sorry;" Richards tells them when Gibbs has outlined the purpose of their visit, "I cannot divulge the details of my client's sessions, not even to Federal authorities, without her permission."

"That's going to be rather difficult, seeing how she's dead." DiNozzo values the sledgehammer technique of interviews. It usually elicits a certain amount of unguarded information when he drops the bomb.

"Dead?" Richards asks, as surprised, and unguarded, as they'd hoped. "How?"

"Suicide," Gibbs tells him. He'd taught his team the 'sledgehammer'. Since _someone_ has made the details of this case public, he might as well use it. "She shot herself after killing her husband." This is one of the reasons he hadn't wanted the woman outside left unobserved.

"My God."

"Has she ever shown any suicidal or homicidal tendencies?" Gibbs keeps the pressure on.

"No, none," Richards is clearly shaken, "my God, if I missed that...."

Gibbs doesn't want the man dwelling on any potential consequences to himself. He wants him focused on his questions. "What was she being treated for?"

Richards hesitates. "You understand that the restrictions of Doctor / Patient Confidentiality forbid me from discussing that information."

"We _understand_ that that went out with her death," Gibbs counters.

"Far be it from me to dispute the word of such as illustrious Agents as yourselves but I have nothing but that word that she is dead. Bring me a Death Certificate and I'll tell you what you want to know."

Unfortunately, while Ducky could sign such a document, he has yet to complete four autopsies. At this moment he hasn't certified Mary Joralemon's death as 'Suicide' or 'Homicide'.

"We can come back here with a warrant for your records and files, before which I will have an Agent posted here, so let's just save the time."

Richards nods, admitting he's been 'checked'. Gibbs knows that whatever information they could receive will be highly edited; he is as interested in what the man will not say as what he does.

Fortunately his bluff pays off, as said warrant will also be time consuming.

x

"I was seeing her for marital problems. Apparently she was dissatisfied with her relationship with her husband; the amount of time he spends away from home. I'm sorry, but that's the limit of what I may tell you."

"Did that 'dissatisfaction' have anything to indicate she had any desire to terminate the relationship," DiNozzo asks, "or perhaps him?"

Richards considers carefully. "She made no secret of the fact – in fact she was quite open and vocal about it so I may mention what is 'common knowledge' – that she very much desired to have a child."

"What methods were you using to treat her?"

"She was responding well to classic psychoanalysis, I considered this case to be reasonably short term. I'd seen her a half dozen times and judged that another eight to ten sessions would resolve her matter. Her true issue is that she needs to – needed to – talk to her husband. There is far too little communicative talk in marriages these days."

Gibbs, with a record of three failed marriages, is not inclined to dispute that conclusion. But the rest of the man's answers, empty though they are, are setting off his BS alarm. The words themselves are true, he is undoubtedly skilled in reading people, but there is more to what the man is not saying than that he is.

"I'm sorry, that is really all I may tell you. Now, you can fulfill your promise to come back with a warrant while you waste one of your Agents in watching that my Secretary and I do not delete or change files, but you'll find it far more useful to interview her friends about her desire to start a family. They'll be in a much better position to give you answers than I am."

This news, unfortunately, is of no surprise whatsoever. Gibbs, knowing that at the moment he has nothing to raise suspicions with the man, decides to let the man think he will follow the 'advice'.

"It won't be necessary to keep anyone here, Doctor. Thank you for your time."

xxx

When they reach the elevator, Gibbs turns to McGee. "What did you find out from the Secretary?"

"Not a lot that's useful," he admits. He had found out the woman could not keep her eyes - or perhaps her hands had Lee not been present - off certain parts of his anatomy, but that is nothing Gibbs wants to know. "She claims to know nothing about the cares of patients other than name, address and phone, appointments and billing."

"Is she lying?"

Though he asks this of McGee, his hesitation gives Lee the chance to slip in. "She is, sir." Gibbs' look tells her he wants a lot more than a simple declaration. "I can't say what she knows, but she is withholding something. I believe she knows a great deal about her boss' clients. She certainly has a very ... invasive nature."

Gibbs returns his attention to McGee. "Pull every bit of information you can on this guy, then find out how long he's known Joralemon, what if anything he's prescribed, everything."

"You think he's hiding something." McGee knows better than to imply this is a question.

"If he's legit, he should be out of business. _Palmer_, just from listening to Ducky, should be able tell that someone's going to off themselves, and this shrink couldn't? He's more concerned for his own position - and too knowledgeable about what we could do with a warrant."

"But you didn't leave one of us behind."

"No, DiNozzo, I _didn't_. I want him to think he's gotten away clean and that we're looking elsewhere." He turns to Lee. "How fast could you get us a warrant?"

"Sir, I could call Patti, have her start the paperwork. Judge Parkins is probably the best one to get to sign off–" His frown deepens. "Four hours, sir."

"You've got two."

"I knew you'd cut me in half, sir; that's why I said four."

xxx

Timothy McGee and Ziva David pull to a stop in front of a two story home in the suburbs. McGee double-checks the address against the paper in his hand.

"That is the fourth time you have checked the address since we turned onto this street." Ziva reminds him.

"This is the worst part of the job, Zee, at least for me."

"It could _be_ worse," she reminds him. "They could have a family."

He nods grimly. "Well, let's get it over with."

The house they approach is a brown split level ranch with rustic wooden fence bordering the sidewalk, separating city property from an expense of grass marred only by a black pole holding aloft an antique gas light. Approaching the white door, the pair glances about - it would not do for anyone to see what Ziva is about to do, black NCIS Federal Agent jackets and caps not withstanding.

Finding no one in sight, Ziva crouches near the door and inserts two small tools into the gold doorknob's key slot. Less than fifteen seconds later she turns the knob.

As messy as their deaths were, Alec and Sally MacDiamond kept a neat residence. Nonetheless, the Agents immediately pull on latex gloves.

Alec was a Lieutenant assigned to Ordinance Control, his duties included the procurement and care of weapons of all types onto the Navy Yard and their eventual distribution to ships where they would in turn become the responsibility of his counterparts at sea. Everything from .22 caliber ammunition to the largest rockets, torpedoes and bombs fell within his prevue.

As much as Alec's responsibilities were concentrated in the Yard, Sally's were in the home and her meticulous care shows in everything from the fresh flowers on the dining room table to the décor of the rooms.

The agents' duty now is to search, to completely invade the privacy of the dead couple in an attempt to find out why they'd died. Unlike the usual investigation the question is not 'who killed them?'; it is 'why are their deaths so similar to those of the Joralemons?'

In that they have a clue and Tim, hunting down the computer which has become ubiquitous in every household, finds it in the den off the living room. It's a Dell Inspiron.

Fortunately a touch of the mouse brings the computer out of 'hibernation' mode and once the desktop appears access to the 'Quicken' banking program is easily obtained. Into a USB port he plugs a classified and very useful device. In less than two minutes the passcode is broken and he has full access to all the MacDiamonds' financial records.

"Zee?" he calls. David joins him a few moments later. She doesn't have to be told what to look at. At this time yesterday would she have been surprised, but not today.

"How much did they lose?"

McGee is looking at the Checking screen, the last entry showing a zero balance. He switches to one of several credit cards, which the day before showed a debt of $31.94. To add insult to whatever injury had been done to these people, this card is now 'maxed out' to its $8,000 limit as a cash advance. "Just totaling in my head what I've seen so far, it comes to over $92,800."

xxx

Two hours later, at nearly noon, Michelle Lee presents herself before Gibbs desk. "Sir, I have the warrant you wanted for the records of Dr. Richards."

"Good, you and DiNozzo."

"Sir?" She's surprised he doesn't include himself in that assignment. He has, in fact, barely glanced away from the monitor on his desk, but now he does.

"Aren't you capable of performing this investigation without direct supervision, Lee?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"Then proceed."

"Come along, Probette," DiNozzo directs, collecting his gear, his attitude clearly showing he does intend to exercise 'supervision'. Gibbs has other ideas.

"Not you, DiNozzo. Lee will talk to Richards, you provide distraction for that Receptionist." From what he has seen, distracting her will not be a challenge for the self-styled Lothario.

"On her, boss."

DiNozzo considers himself fortunate to be over six feet away.


	9. Requiem for McGee

Chapter Nine  
Requiem for McGee

Tim McGee delves into information from the Joralemon's and MacDiamond's computers, using mirrored data from their hard drives on his high capacity drive. But though he tries to concentrate he can't stop thinking about the incident with Siobhan. That damned kiss that had so taken them both by surprise and destroyed months of his work - not that he can forget her returned kiss.

He'd called but hadn't been able to reach her through the rest of Sunday. He truly wanted a chance to explain, now that he has come up with some words, but she didn't return his calls.

He tries to work, to focus, to put the woman out of his mind. He can't do it.

There's a vast amount of research to do, coordinating the backgrounds of the Joralemons and the MacDiamonds, trying to find the common element that would lead each woman to kill her husband and then herself. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't focus. Every so often he realizes he's thinking of the red-headed woman again. It just seems that, whenever he relaxes, she's in his head.

It isn't right, can't be. Zee's supposed to be in his head and heart, but every time he looks it's Siobhan who's there. He thinks he's losing his mind along with his focus. Why can't he get Siobhan, old friend or not, out of his mind. He thinks he is out of his mind, especially with this unresolved issue hanging over his head.

x

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he leaves his desk. "Boss, there's something I have to attend to." He cannot simply disappear, he has to tell the man something. Gibbs looks up at him.

"Work related, McGee?" They're up to their necks in a case that has all the signs of growing more complicated long before it gets better.

McGee is silenced. He cannot tell the truth and he cannot lie. Trapped, he finally manages to break from his quandary, about to return to his desk when Gibbs beckons him closer so that only he can hear. "Take lunch, you've got ninety minutes. _D__on't_ make me come looking for you again."

"Thank you, boss."

"Eighty nine fifty."

xxx

Tony pushes the button beside the door to Dr. Richards' offices, glancing at the woman beside him. "While I keep the Receptionist busy outside, you dig into Richards, glean everything he knows."

"Yes, sir," she says, not meeting his eyes. It is not as if they hadn't covered this 'game plan' twice already - completely aside from the fact that Special Agent Gibbs' instructions had been quite explicit and had used fewer words. He had also placed _her_ in charge of this detail.

Why, she wonders, does this man beside her feel he always has to supervise - no, make that micromanage, her?'

'Okay, he's 'Senior Field', but was he that way with Agent McGee and Officer David? Probably. Definitely. Wish _he__'d_ been the one who'd gone to Mexico.'

x

When the door buzzes Tony pushes it open, entering first, pleased to see the pleasure light come on in the eyes of the woman behind the desk. 'This is going to be so easy.' He sees, as he approaches her, that her eyes track his every move.

"Yes, Agent DiNozzo, what may I do for you?"

Michelle, not sure who in this moment she is more annoyed with, steps half a pace past DiNozzo and displays her shield and ID in one hand, a folded paper in the other. "Special Agent Lee, I have a warrant to inspect, seize and obtain your records pursuant to an investigation into the death of–"

"Come now, Lee," Tony admonishes with oily suaveness, "I'm sure that Ms…" he hesitates significantly.

"It's Miss," she assures him with a smile, "Miss Rynager."

"Miss Rynager…"

"_LeeAnn_ Rynager."

"LeeAnn…" he turns some of his attention briefly back to Lee, "is more than happy to cooperate with a Court Order."

"Oh, I'm happy to cooperate," she smiles up at him, seizes and clutches his attention, "with anything you want."

Lee, thinking she is almost able to _smell_ the estrogen, puts her shield case back into her pocket, her out-of-sight hand clenched hard enough to dig her nails into her palm in an effort not to smack someone.

xxx

When McGee reaches St. Mary the Virgin Church he parks in the rear lot beside the Rectory, circles the church and enters the tremendous structure and enters through the New York Avenue entrance. As he enters the Narthex through the side door of the short corridor that runs between the rear of the Church and the large Hall, he stops, realizes he has miscalculated - badly.

The Noon Mass is still under way and Siobhan is officiating. The Altar is 200 feet distant. He doubts she's able to see him even were her attention not focused upon the Consecration of the Eucharist and Wine.

Taking a seat in the rear corner near the door, he watches her perform the ancient ritual and wonders how insane he can be to have come here.

He's supposed to be working, not following his impulsive desires, no matter how important, how consuming and distracting they had been when he was at his desk. He should leave. He tells himself that if he were sane he'd return to work and not risk making an utter fool of himself by attempting to clear air that may well not be fogged.

He is, however, trapped. Trapped by a lifetime of training that tells him one does _not_ walk out on this part of the Service for any reason. Even though he does not intend to participate - it being no part of his plan to reveal his presence before he can talk to her - he cannot leave.

The quandary the conflicting emotions and impulses hold him prisoner all through the final minutes of the Mass, and with a guilty start he realizes he has completely zoned out through the Communion, Benediction and Dismissal. She's leaving, recessing down the center aisle with Melanie Velez. She doesn't see him, hardly expecting to, and they pass right by him and turn right at the Narthex to the foyer between the buildings. Feeling vastly more guilty than embarrassed, he silently implores forgiveness for his distracted inattention.

Even so, he makes certain to be the last of two score people to leave by the rear door to the short space connecting Church to Hall. Siobhan stands at the foot of the staircase that leads up to the Choir Loft. She is clad now in her long white alb, the green and gold chasuble and stole obviously having been taken ahead by Velez. Her fiery red hair provides a vibrant contrast to the white attire. She only 'recognizes' him at the last instant, her outstretched hand frozen.

x

"Hello, Shav," he greets her quietly when the last of the others have gone through the Hall door and they are alone.

"Timmy," she says through her frozen smile, "I wasn't expecting you."

"I know, I–"

"I saw you on the News–" she cuts him off, telling him that she knows what had brought him here and that she's not ready to discuss it. "I'd called but you were out in the Field. I wanted to compliment you - and to thank you for pulling the Reporters off me. You gave them someone more interesting to follow."

He's focused on the time. "Thank you, but I really wanted to talk to you."

She glances briefly at the glass door of the more than half filled Hall on her right. Most of the people had not skipped their lunches and she can sense an undertone to his words she simply cannot get into now. "Lately your timing just stinks."

"I know. I won't be long. But that's just one of the things I wanted to apologize for."

The smile defrosts into shamed chagrin, "Timmy, you don't owe me any apology. If anything, I owe you." She blushes. "I got your messages; I just had no idea what to _say_. I admit that sounds kind of 'schoolgirlish', but I needed to think. I was going to call you this afternoon - when I thought of something. The fact is that, if your boss hadn't interrupted, things would have gone a lot more smoothly yesterday."

"I had sworn I would never - _ever_ - do such a thing, never think of you romantically, but then we were in that moment–"

"When?"

Behind her gold glasses, surprise shines in her emerald eyes. The sudden question derails him. "When we got off that ride, when I kissed–"

"No, I mean when did you swear that you would never think of me romantically? Because if it was to me I surely don't remember it."

"I swore it to myself, over a year ago, that I was going to keep a proper distance between us and–"

"Was this before or after you started seeing Ziva David?"

He thinks about it. "Over a year before. I was still reeling from the fact that you're a ...." He cannot say it, indicates the white alb and the barely visible, inch-high white collar that encircles her throat.

"Timmy," she sighs, "you monumental _fool_."

He considers this. "I've been called worse."

"You deserve worse, but we're in public." She shakes her head, tries not to think of 'what might have been'.

x

"But that changes nothing. You are in a relationship, with a good woman–"

"-who I'd never do anything to hurt -."

"- if you did I'd hit you a lot harder than your boss did yesterday, and I wouldn't hit the back of your head."

"Tough love, huh? What ever happened to 'turning the other cheek'?"

"You'd still have one left." She glances to her right. "Timmy, this is the Social hour and I really _have_ to socialize. Call me this evening on the Rectory line, we can talk."

"Okay," he says, turns around to the street exit as she heads for the glass door. But then he looks back. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't mad at me."

She pauses at the door. "The day's still young, Timmy," she assures him with a smile.

Though he makes a move to depart, he cannot rip his eyes off her until she has passed through her door and is gone.

xx

Exchanging words of greeting with people in passing, anxious to dispense with the remnant of her liturgical attire before returning to the Hall, she crosses the length of the long room and exits through the rear door. This opens into the passage containing offices and vesting rooms as well as the Sacristy and entrance to the Rectory. Before her is the Secretary's office and before she can pass the woman at the desk calls to her. "Oh, Mother, you have a call."

Siobhan enters the small office. "Who is it?"

"NCIS."

Automatically Siobhan looks to her right, the direction of her conversation with Tim McGee. But 'He wouldn't have…' she thinks, and wonders then who could be calling her - and why. Taking the phone, she presses the blinking button, "Saint Mary the Virgin, Mother O'Mallory; how may I help you?"

"Mother, this is Jimmy Palmer. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No, not at all." She feels the mystery grow by the moment.

"I was wondering - are you doing anything Tuesday evening?"

xxx

Tim gets into his car in the parking lot. He closes the window, turns the air conditioner on full power against the afternoon sun and wonders just how insane he is. This visit, having accomplished nothing, only drives home the fact that he is _very _insane.

What had he been thinking, or was he thinking at all? What had he accomplished, except to make himself look like a complete and utter fool? Looking back, he wonders what he would have accomplished even if his plans - such as they were - had been fulfilled perfectly?

The answer, perversely enough, invades his mind with, he supposes, the clarity of madness. In words so utterly familiar he can see and hear the scene in his mind as he had watched it hundreds of times over his lifetime, DeForest Kelly's 'McCoy' counsels Leonard Nimoy's 'Spock' about William Shatner's 'Kirk' in 'Requiem for Methuselah'.

'You see, I feel sorrier for you than I do for him, because you'll never know the things that Love can drive a man to. The ecstasies, the miseries, the broken rules, the desperate chances, the glorious failures - and the glorious victories. All of these things you'll never know, simply because the word 'Love' isn't written into your book.'

"No, I'm not in love. Not with Shav." He mutters. Against his will, he 'hears' the words again, only this time their force drives him to rage. "_I'm Not In __**Love**_!" He shouts - freezes a moment later as the realization of what he has just done slaps him worse than Gibbs ever had.

One thing McCoy had left out of his litany was shouting like a madman in his own car.

"I am _not _in love," he insists to himself. "Except with Zee!"

But as he puts the car in gear, he wonders why this feels so much like the start of an argument he will never win.

xxx

Gibbs walks into Abby's lab a little after 2:00 to find her bent over her microscope. Her attention is so locked on whatever image is before her that she is completely unaware of his presence. The frenzied beat of her music doesn't help. "Abby?"

She turns around, favors him with a smile. "Hi, Gibbs," she holds up her hands, "look, before you say anything I want to apologize for yesterday. I don't know what happened to me. Maybe I'm not getting enough 'Caf-Pow!'."

"You _always_ get enough 'Caf-Pow!'."

"Well, anyway, I really zoned out. Sorry I got so zonked. I hope I didn't do anything embarrassing."

He shakes his head. "I put you in your coffin. You were asleep before your head even hit the pillow."

She smiles more broadly. "You didn't try to take advantage of me, did you?"

"It was a Sunday."

"Okay."

"I asked you yesterday what your analysis of the gun found."

"You did?" He glares at her, at least as much as he ever does with her. "Okay, you did, it must be in that memory cluster that got fragmented. Anyway, the gun: she didn't use it much, if at all. Four shots fired, but it's been months since the thing was cleaned. If it had been on the dresser instead of in it, I could tell by the amount of dust on it. But suffice it to say she wasn't a shooter.

"There wasn't a drop of alcohol in her blood, no drugs… she was … in her right …" she looks at him intently. "I _told_ you all this already, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. Yesterday."

She shakes her head. "I guess I'm not getting enough sleep." She rubs her eyes tiredly, then catches his concerned look. "Kidding. I'm kidding."

"Not funny, Abs."

She crosses the room to her stereo, ejects the chaotic disk she had been playing, opens a jewel case and inserts another silver disk. The music that comes out of the speakers is vastly different; soft and soothing rather than eardrum rattling. "That's better."

It also sounds familiar, "Isn't that the disk from Mary Joralemon's player?"

"It's soothing," she protests.

"Since when do you do 'soothing'?"

"Come on, Gibbs, a girl has the right to change her mind occasionally."

Anything is better than her normal frantic music as far as he is concerned. "Well, just make sure it gets back to the Evidence Locker."

"Of course."

"Any trace on the Nitro?"

"Home grown, or synthesized rather - it's not from any lot I can trace. I compared the molecular structure and the volumes of the compounds with known manufacturers. If is it commercial it's not from around here."

"Foreign?" 'Did she just say 'if is it'?'

"I'm not ruling it out yet, but it's like looking for a microbe in a swamp. I'll find it but it takes time."

"Anything you need?"

"How about a TARDIS?"


	10. Debriefing

Chapter Ten  
Debriefing

Since returning to Headquarters, McGee has tried to keep from thinking - except of the Investigation or of Ziva David. Normally these two things wouldn't present difficult choices, but his normally ordered mind is shaken. He's not sure he'll be able to find answers to any of his dilemmas. It is after three when Gibbs strides into the bullpen and stalks up to his desk.

"What have you got, McGee?"

Fortunately, he is ready with a concise report. "Boss, I examined both computers and haven't found a single connection. The Joralemons and the MacDiamonds lived on opposite sides of the city. Going by their calendars I can find nothing to connect them. I'm going through their contact lists but haven't found any matches for names or places."

Gibbs knows how much McGee hates to make such an admission but he can hardly expect miracles. The consolidating of four lives to find a pattern is not something that can be done in an afternoon, no matter how good the Agent is. It's just too large a job.

"You've got three hours." He turns his attention to the others and the multitude of cardboard boxes spread out among the three desks. They contain every file folder from the drawers of Dr. Samuel Richards.

"Before you ask," DiNozzo tells him, "these are the records of _six hundred sixty two_ patients going back three years, one hundred seventy nine of which are currently active. Of the four hundred eighty three that remain, sixty two became inactive in the last six months. These two hundred forty one are split more or less equally among the three of us according to gender."

Gibbs looks at the tall piles obscuring Lee and David's desks and the stack on DiNozzo's. "Split better."

"Yes," Ziva says, obviously resuming an argument begun in Gibbs' absence. "I said I would expect that you would love to gain some insight into the private thoughts of his female patients."

"There's only so much Dr. Phil and Oprah a man can take."

Gibbs strides over to Lee's desk, takes a pile and brings it to DiNozzo's, indiscriminately doing the same with a stack from Ziva's. The end of the resorting leaves more files deposited upon DiNozzo's desk than on either of the women's.

He returns to his desk, finds the signal light flashing on his phone. He picks it up and presses the button, a few moments later puts it down and starts for the stairs. "I'll be in MTAC."

xxx

Gibbs had always thought of the huge command center as being inappropriately reminiscent of a theater, with rows of seats facing a movie viewscreen. There he finds Director Jennifer Shepherd standing before the huge screen, her back to him. He descends the ramp, remembering that the last time they had been together in this room, it had been for a very unpleasant encounter. That had been with a pair of officious Army Generals and their not very veiled threats, "You sent for me, Director?"

It would be 'Jenny' if there weren't two Operators manning the control board to his left. When she turns to him, he's glad it had been 'Director'. He slows to a cautious stop.

Jennifer Shepherd has always had, Gibbs thinks, smoldering eyes, but now words like 'molten' or 'incendiary' come more readily to mind. She turns her head very slowly to the Operators, her voice held in very careful check. "Dismissed."

Fiery as her eyes are, the word is glacial and, though the men would do their best not to look like they're slinking out, they evacuate without losing a second. They never look at her. When the door closes behind them Shepherd stands perfectly still, her fists clenched at her sides, every muscle in her body taut, hard as iron.

Gibbs waits for her to speak first. It takes a very long time and when she finally does her voice is toneless, her lips tight. "The SecNav and the Chief of Naval Intelligence were just on the line. First several key Scientists of a Government 'think tank' get killed, we capture the killer and the one who compromised vital secrets and we let them get away - never mind that the Army took them - left hand not knowing what the right is doing. We are continuing to fail to capture La Grenouille, then someone kills several innocent people in an attempt to kill Abby and the Government has to pay out a _barge_-load of money in indemnities. Now Navy wives are murdering their husbands and immediately.... For fifteen minutes, in front of two technicians, they reamed me a new one and I had to stand here and _take _it."

Her voice drops from contained fury to appeal. "_Please_ tell me you have something that's worth what I had to endure."

Gibbs looks at his old partner, his friend, his _Director_, hardly able to picture the moment she has described. She is madder than he has ever seen her and with far too much reason. He'd be apoplectic at half of that.

He shakes his head, says "Nope," turns and walks away.

x

Jennifer's fury is overwhelmed by outraged astonishment as she watches him leave. "_Special Agent Gibbs_!"

Halfway up the ramp he turns back to her, "I don't have a blessed thing to give you, Jen. But I can tell you where you can get my report."

Turning again, he continues up the ramp and out the door.

Feeling her blood pressure erupt, tightly containing a shriek of fury, she stalks after him.

xxx

Tim McGee, feeling more and more unable to focus, finally decides to do something about the thoughts that keep dragging his mind from work. He picks up his phone, dials a private cell phone number. He doesn't have to wait too long for a woman's voice to answer. //Hello?//

"Shav, it's me."

//Hi, 'me'.// There is much more pleasure in her tone than he'd been afraid there would be. He'd half expected to hear the quiet 'click' of her phone being closed.

"I know ..." Suddenly he's uncomfortable. For the past two hours he'd known what he wanted to say. Now... "Look, I know you said to call tonight, we could talk, but things are pretty hectic. I'm not sure I can."

//That's all right.//

"No, it–" he reins himself in sharply. "No, it isn't. The - the truth is I have to see you. I have to talk to you - about - about what happened at the Fair."

//We _will_ talk, Timmy; but now's ... not a good time.// He can hear how distracted she is, he has obviously interrupted something.

"Listen, I know when we can talk. There's ... There's kind of a dinner party coming up on Tuesday and I was thinking ..."

//Yes, Mr. Palmer invited me. It's at Ricardo's, isn't it? I have it in my calendar.//

This is even more surprising, but he tries to take it in stride. "Then you're already going. Good. I can ... I could pick you up–"

//Timmy,// she cuts him off, but then there is a long, uncomfortable silence while she obviously hunts for the words. Her voice drops low. //Timmy, you're going to be with Ziva David. She is your date. I could not - it just wouldn't be appropriate....// He can hear her mind change. //Maybe I shouldn't come.//

"No, please, I didn't mean–!"

//Doctor Mallard will be escorting me. That's already been arranged.//

Of course it would be, Tim realizes. An unescorted lady at a dinner party would be anathema to the man's sensitivities, and her presence as his guest would raise no concerns from Ziva or even Abby. What could he have been thinking of?

//You and I, Timmy, _we_ know where we stand, but others might read something into it if .... Timmy, I have to be careful if I'm going to maintain a working relationship with all your people. I'm Enkiss' Chaplain. I'm.... It - we know where we stand - at least I _think _we do - but - it just ... wouldn't be appropriate. You understand.//

"Of course," he agrees. She hadn't allowed it to be a question. He just wants the conversation to be over, before anything else goes wrong. He wants to whack himself in the back of his head - with a brick. He cannot believe he has been so stupid. He's taken an uncomfortable situation and escalated it to the level of a near disaster. "I'll see you Tuesday."

//See you Tuesday.//

"I love you."

x

His heart turns over. The words have slipped past his lips. He had intended to say 'goodbye', but that was not the word that came out!

There is profound silence on the other end of the line as he wishes again that he could smack himself in the back of his head. He's not certain, as he listens cautiously, if she is still on the line or has already hung up and missed his words. But he's afraid to speak and afraid to hang up.

It's a very long time before he decides she had indeed gone and he is safe. He's relieved and is about to hang up when he hears her soft words, barely a whisper. //I love you too, Timmy.//

The line clicks dead and he's left holding the receiver.

x

McGee tries not to allow his head to clunk down hard upon his desk, fearing to announce his stupidity to the entire office. He rubs his eyes, tries to ease the strain upon them and to convince himself he hasn't just kicked his entire world into the bucket.

He feels his cell phone start to vibrate. Pulling it from his pocket, he finds a text message on the small screen. [Captive].

Glancing across the bullpen, he finds Ziva David's desk vacant. Standing up, doing his best to hide a smile of anticipation and a grimace of agonizing guilt, he glances to Tony and Michelle on either side of him; "I'm going to get some fresh air."

"Bring some back with you, Probie." DiNozzo appeals from behind a wall of files.

He walks away, his grin widening. He will bury his confusion and concern in what he truly has and forget his conflicting emotions by totally_ burying _thoughts of Siobhan in total concentration upon _Ziva_.

He is absolutely _through _with conflicting emotions and anticipations and confusion and ambiguity and duality. He is on his way to see Ziva, and in answer to DiNozzo's 'appeal', what he is going to be getting he will certainly _not_ be bringing back.

x

Boarding the elevator, he presses the top button. Exiting on that level, he turns left and proceeds down the long corridor to the Emergency Exit at the end. Glancing back to make certain no one has stepped out of any office, he finds the area empty. He pushes the unlatched door, steps into the dimly lit stairwell.

He had introduced Ziva to this sanctuary some time ago, and it had immediately become for her a setting for a private game. It became an indulgence into a secret something so different from the norm for them that no one who knew the woman would believe it of her. Exclusive to this place is an indulgence they've enjoyed several times already.

When he steps in and the door closes, he finds Ziva in the corner, pressed back apprehensively against the hanging folded fire hose. She wears only a small black bra completely inadequate for the job demanded of it, a smaller black thong and a look of utter terror. Her clothes, and her reserve, are folded aside.

"Please, sir," she gasps, pressing to the folded fire hose; trapped, terrified, helpless, "will you not let me go?"

"No," he starts to pull his tie loose.

She raises her hands, not to protect herself but in surrender, her arms pressed against the fire hose, emphasizing her vulnerability. "Do not _hurt_ me! I will do whatever you want. _Pl__ease _do not hurt me!"

He smiles, advancing on her. He has never hurt her in any of their faux struggles and all of her screams he has ever had to muffle have never been of pain or fear….

xxx

Twenty minutes after leaving MTAC Jennifer Shepherd is clad in a grey NCIS gym shirt, shorts and sneakers, heavy blue gloves on her hands and a heavily padded blue guard encasing her head. She squares off against a similarly attired Jethro Gibbs in the elevated ring. There is no bell, no cheering crowd and no clock. "I'm not supposed to be doing this," she points out as they dance about, sizing one another up.

"Come on, Jenny, it's only fair. I'm the one not pushing my team. We _could_ have answers for you but I decided to go easy on them - and I don't particularly _care_ what you had to go through as a result."

She grins, snapping a left jab at his face that gets past his 'guard' and still barely nudges him. "I know what you're doing."

"You don't even know what _you're_ doing! Morrow should never have left. If you were any kind of _Director_ you'd know what your teams are accomplishing, who's _sleeping_ on the job and you wouldn't have to have the SecNav ream you a new–"

This jab has more feeling behind it, slipping past his 'careless' guard and catching him solidly on the jaw, snapping his head back. But he shakes it off easily, his grin mocking her. "You're _soft_ - too long behind a desk. No wonder James Dempsey took you so easily, you couldn't even fight _back__._ And _Bob,_ your _driver_, paid the _price_! He _died _because you're such a weak–!"

A rapid series of hard punches driven by real rage nearly get past his now earnest guard, but not well enough. He taunts her more, his accusations far more biting, much worse than being responsible for the death of a friend and loss of a husband and father.

x

Twenty minutes of unremitting abuse and revenge later they sit together on the edge of the ring, legs dangling, head protectors off. Jenny is breathes heavily, her red hair plastered to her head. Her chest heaves, the wet shirt adhered to her body and she feels infinitely better than she has in months. "Thank you," she gasps.

"We should have this kind of debriefing on a regular basis."

"I don't think I could survive," she admits, panting for air.

"Ready to hear my report now?"

"Sure," she leans against him, wiping the sweat from her face with her shirt. "Lay it on me."

x

He just reaches the end of the condensed report when the door across the room swings open and DiNozzo comes in. "Boss, I–"

He had tracked Gibbs down through the Director's check-in with her Secretary but he's unprepared for the sight as they grasp the taut upper rope and boost themselves to their feet in the ring. He is especially not ready for the sight of NCIS' Director with her wet tee shirt plastered to her body.

"What is it, DiNozzo?"

"Well, er, I thought you'd like to know that we...." that shirt really is plastered admirably to her–

"Spit it out, DiNozzo!"

"Sally MacDiamond is a patient of Samuel Richards under her maiden name 'Callahan'."

Gibbs grasps the ring rope, swings under them and land on his feet, an impressive feat while wearing gloves. "You've saved yourself a 'debriefing'."

"Boss?"

"Operations Policy D942-A; you'll be getting a memo on it. Agents who turn in unsatisfactory work will meet here with our Director - where they'll be _inspired_ to do better."

Tony looks up at the woman as Gibbs passes; she smiles and thumps her blue gloves together twice. DiNozzo smiles back but it gradually falters as disbelief is replaced by two realizations: First, Gibbs is neither a liar nor a joker - Rule 7 notwithstanding. Second, it sounds just unlikely enough, considering Government thinking, to be true.

His smile faltering further, he follows Gibbs out. He gets as far as the door, however, when: "Agent DiNozzo!"

He turns, looking up at the woman, "Yes, Ma'am," he responds crisply.

"Remember, your Annual Evaluation comes up next week." She thumps the gloves together once. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Yes, Ma'am," he acknowledges and departs, now with even less confidence.

xxx

When the five Agents stop at the wooden door their manner is vastly different than at their earlier collective visit. Then they had been projecting an air of cordial efficiency, interested in conversation and information. This time all know where their guns are. Gibbs presses the button by the door, but in the seconds that follow the expected buzz does not sound. He pushes it again. They distinctly hear the muffled tone across the room even through the door.

Another moment's wait. Gibbs has had enough. "Ziva."

The woman drop to one knee and pulls a small packet of tools from her pocket. She selects two and uses them to manipulate the cylinder, works swiftly and silently. "Go."

Gibbs pushes the door open, Ziva moves to her right as the door swings wide and she hears the distinctive sound of metal clearing leather all about her. She draws her own Sig as she quickly rises to follow the others into the room. The Agents spread apart, widely separating as five pairs of darting eyes take in everything in the room.

There is no motion to attract the eye, the most arresting sight is directly before them. LeeAnn Rynager lies on the floor on her right side beyond her overturned chair, her body facing the white wall. She's crumpled into the space behind the glass topped table that serves as her desk. The wall is splattered with a spray of blood.

DiNozzo and McGee, closest to the inner door, take positions on either side of it, guns ready. The others spread to cover the room from three angles and signal their readiness. DiNozzo pushes the unlatched door with his foot and it quickly swings inward.

Samuel Richards lies facing them at the base of the wall between his glass topped table/desk and the fabric covered couch to the right. His right side is awash in blood. There's a small hole in the center of his forehead. Blood has sprayed the clear glass desktop before his overturned leather chair, which has fallen in the opposite direction. The wall and window behind the desk are sprayed in gore.

A rapid flicker of eyes proves there is no one else present. Lee and David turn from their positions to quickly check closets and bathroom, quiet reports of 'clear' virtually the only sounds in the offices. Guns, no longer needed, are returned to holsters and the team, split between the rooms, look at the two corpses.

"Two dead, separate rooms. Both shot in the head, no guns in sight …. If this is another murder / suicide," DiNozzo concludes grimly, "it's a good one."


	11. Head Shots

Chapter Eleven  
Head Shots

Gibbs concludes his call to Headquarters from before the Receptionist's desk, closes the cell phone and studies the woman's body. LeeAnn Rynager lies on her right side facing the wall, her crumpled body almost wedged into the space behind the clear topped table.

Her overturned chair partially covers her legs, as though she had been seated in the chair when an impact had driven her out of it. There is a small hole behind her left ear, the carpet under her head is blood-soaked while the rear wall is splattered with blood and worse. Ten inches above the baseboard, in line from Gibbs' position to where her head might have been if she were facing the computer, is a dime-sized hole.

McGee and David use their cell phone cameras to document the outer and inner offices while DiNozzo uses his small pocket pad for a series of initial sketches. Gibbs has called for Ducky and Palmer together with the Crime Scene truck, but in the time it will take for them to arrive, they will use such resources as they have.

Putting the phone back into his pocket, Gibbs notices Lee standing beside him, staring at the splattered wall.

"The shooter was a woman, sir, about five nine, five ten." The angle from where she remembers Rynager's head would be to the hole is wrong for her; the perp had to be taller than she is. Her own bullet, had she aimed for Rynager's head, would lodge into the wall several inches higher.

"How could you _possibly _know it's a woman, Probette?" DiNozzo demands, aggravated by the certainty in her voice. 'If this is more of her 'psychic-babble' I'll...'

DiNozzo may have asked the question, but it is to Gibbs that she makes her report. She can see he's also interested in how she arrived at her conclusion. Good.

"Sir, she was _very_ attentive to customers - _male_ customers." She knows Gibbs recalls this, but to serves as a good lead-in. "In the two times I dealt with her, once with Agent McGee, once with Agent DiNozzo, I might as well have been in Timbuktu. She didn't glance at me unless I forced her to, while she never took her eyes off either man. Even when she took a call, when Agent McGee and I were questioning her, she never once looked away from him. She worked the computer," she indicates the unit to their left, "by touch of the keyboard, glancing only occasionally at the screen." She turns toward where the figment receptionist would have been.

"However, now the position of the chair indicates she was turned toward the computer when she was shot behind her left ear. If it were a man who shot her, he'd have targeted her forehead."

Gibbs considers this. McGee had nodded to him from beside the woman's body in confirmation during the testimony. He steps over to the doorway to the inner office, looking at the man's body lying along the far wall. "Lee."

She joins him. "Yes, sir?"

"What happened in here?"

x

She looks up at him, sees he is serious. Taking a deep breath, knowing he's evaluating her conclusions against the evidence to be collected, which will either support or refute her assessments, she steps into the room. She tries to put Ziva out of her mind as the woman photographs the scene on her cell.

She steps into the room, cautious of disturbing any evidence, and stops short of the clear-topped table/desk. The overturned chair beyond it lies on its right side. She inspects the blood-spattered desktop and the open window behind the desk. The blood on the wall is smeared rather than splattered, starting five feet to the right of the desk. Richards' body lies partially on its back, propped up by the wall, and the right side of his body is covered in blood from mid-chest to waist. A small pool has soaked into the carpet under his head, and his face is darkened with gunshot residue. She leans carefully over the desktop, tries to see from all angles.

Gibbs waits patiently outside the room, all the while making his own assessment. Finally Michelle turns to him. "He heard the shot, heard her fall." She looks around the sparsely furnished room, no more than a desk, two chairs and a couch. "There's no place in here to hide. He has two choices: rush the door before it opens or escape out the window. The desk is in his way, he can't move fast enough. We're four stories up, not pleasant but a survivable jump against the prospect of being shot.

"I can see a little of his back, there's blood on it. He tried for the window, maybe a ledge, maybe to jump, but was shot before he could make it. He tried to make it to his right, already wounded and was shot again in his side. He fell against the wall, that smear is consistent with blood you may find on his back. By the GSR I'd say whoever it was came in and fired point blank into his head."

She knows she's drawing quite a number of conclusions and that Gibbs is assessing her skills even as he is assessing the scene. She holds her breath, waiting for his pronouncement.

Gibbs, never one to be ebullient or fulsome of praise, looks back and forth between the two bodies, then nods. "Not bad." He steps out of sight toward Rynager's desk.

Lee lets out her pent up breath, turns to Ziva who smiles at her. She can't help grinning so broadly it hurts. A 'not bad' from Gibbs, she has come to know, is the equivalent of being picked up bodily and kissed full upon the lips.

x

"Ziva."

The woman, camera phone in hand, steps to the doorway. Gibbs is standing before the Receptionist desk. "Why was Sally MacDiamond seeing him, and why under her Maiden name?" The file had been in her stack.

"She was unhappy with several things about her marriage, most notably her suspicion that Alec MacDiamond was having an affair. I think she used her Maiden name, and had the bill go to her sister's address, because she probably didn't want her husband to know she was seeing a Psychiatrist." She doesn't like the look DiNozzo, near the Receptionist's corpse, gives her. "However, I am not ready to make that official. She had hired a Private Investigator. The report came back that no evidence of an extra-marital affair could be uncovered."

"Did Alec MacDiamond know he was being investigated?"

"She believed he did not."

Which is, of course, inconclusive.

xx

Ten minutes later the ME and MCR trucks arrive and the investigation may be conducted properly. While camera phones are acceptable for setting the scene, they cannot match the resolution of the larger digital cameras. Numbered stands mark a variety of evidence, laser tracers track the paths of the bullets, a vast array of measurements are taken and a wealth of notes are documented before Ducky and Jimmy can approach the bodies and begin their own examinations.

In the interim, while they await Ducky's evaluations, McGee and DiNozzo are sent to the neighboring tenants. Did anyone hear Samuel Richards and LeeAnn Rynager being murdered?

Gibbs is unsurprised by the response when they return. For all the noise four shots in an enclosed office must have made, no one saw or heard anything.

x

"Well, my friend," Ducky says, looking closely at the hole in the man's forehead, "I suppose if one must go, it is best if it is finished quickly." He peels the square inch of paper from the man's face. The underside is stained almost black. He looks over his shoulder at the waiting Supervisor.

"I would say he was shot from some twelve to fourteen inches away. The further away, the less stippling or burning and the less spent powder trace there is. A point-blank shot turns the paper almost black, and the density falls off at a measurable level until one reaches the 'point of no return', as it were."

Ducky hasn't told him anything he didn't thoroughly know, and judging from the man's smile he knows it too. "That puts him or her standing right over the body." Gibbs is inclined to go with Lee's evaluation, at least as a working theory. "What about her?"

"Oh, she was shot at much closer range, no more than five inches. There was considerable stippling; her face and hair about the wound were burned. My sense is that it was quite unexpected." He points to Richards. "This poor man, however, did have some warning, quite probably when he heard the shot."

"Comes in, shoots her, shoots him, then what?" He looks around. There is little of interest in this room, and they have the Doctor's files back at Headquarters. He crosses to the door. "DiNozzo."

"Yes, boss!" Tony acknowledges crisply from the front door, a fingerprint kit in his hand. He is dusting the outer side.

"Did you get _all_ their files when you were here?"

Tony glances at the closed green cabinets in the far right corner. "Every scrap." His face clouds sourly. "The warrant didn't cover computer records, but we got all the paper."

Gibbs glances at the device between the door and body, "We have the computer," he looks across the room, where McGee and David are collecting other physical minutia to be analyzed by Abby. "McGee, after they're done fingerprinting it, I want you to turn that thing inside out. What were the last things looked at?"

"On it, boss."

xx

Gibbs puts a small plastic jar into the evidence box by the door between the offices. He then stands in the outer office where he can see both bodies, taking in the entire picture. This case is becoming cloudier. Mary Joralemon kills her husband, Sally MacDiamond kills hers. Both women immediately commit suicide, and now someone has executed the Doctor who was treating both women, one of whom was seeing him under her Maiden name. Is the Receptionist a collateral casualty or is her death more significant than just the elimination of a witness and possible complication?

Stepping into the inner room, he goes to the two men working upon the body. "What have you got for me, Ducky?"

"Our Mr. Richards was the victim of three gunshot wounds; to lower back, right side between the fifth and sixth ribs and then the forehead. Time of death…" he draws a long thermometer from the man's side and compares it to the one clipped to his shirt, "judging from lividity, the progress of rigor mortis and liver temperature… I put it between two and six hours ago, certainly no more than that.

"Ms. Rynager displays no defensive posture. Mr. Richards' hands may well have been raised to ward off the final shot, an instinctive reaction that does no good whatsoever. I'll let you know more when I have them on my tables."

Gibbs goes to the window behind the desk and looks out. There is no ledge upon which to stand, but four stories below a lawn is bisected by a concrete path leading to the rear door. Four stories are, as Lee had said, 'survivable', especially when facing the alternative of a bullet.

x

"Boss," McGee calls, coming over to him with a padded clear plastic jar, "I cut out a square foot of the drywall, this was on the floor between drywall and bricks behind Miss Rynager." Taking it and holding it to the window, he examines it closely. The bullet is heavily dented, having passed through bone and inner wall to impact brick.

".35 mm." He glances at Ducky who has looked back, watching him.

"A lot of firepower for point-blank execution."

A lot of firepower indeed. The fatal shots had entered their heads in smaller-than-dime sized holes, the exit wounds are as large as tomatoes.

"Measurements with the laser and tape bear out Lee's assessment," McGee continues. "We figure the perp to be about five ten." The bullet had entered through the temporal bone behind the upper portion of Rynager's left ear from a range of barely six inches, coming out behind her right jawbone; having penetrated the rear lower portion of her brain. It likely destroyed the brain stem, though Ducky can tell them precisely, before embedding itself into the wall ten inches above the baseboard.

"You also think we're looking for a woman?"

McGee nods; "I've been on the receiving end of Rynager's attention. I didn't particularly enjoy it. I don't object to the attentions of a beautiful woman, but not when she overdoes it. Whoever it was that shot her, it's almost certain she was not paying attention."

"What was she doing?"

"The computer is open to the Doctor's schedule for this coming Tuesday. She might have been booking an appointment for the perp, might have been looking up someone else, there's no way to be sure yet. There are three appointments scheduled for later today. I called Peterson, he's running the names against Servicemen."

"When's the first appointment?"

"Just under an hour."

They will not be keeping these appointments. He'll have agents intercept them.

xxx

Jennifer Shepherd does not even glance up from the file folders open upon her desk as her door opens; there is only one person in all of NCIS who would cut past Cynthia Sumner. "Shut the door, Jethro." When it closes she glances up, "I _meant _from the other side." If he can be rude, breaking in on her in such a moment, he deserves the same in return.

She returns to her contemplation of the files before her, having absorbed the Education records before turning to the next page of each simultaneously, reviewing the first pages of Psych evaluations. She doesn't look up at him again as he steps in front of her desk. "Just once, will you let Cynthia announce you -" her voice sharpens, "- or pause long enough for her to tell you that I do not want to be disturbed?"

It is not to say she is not touched and immensely grateful for all of Gibbs' help earlier today. By the time she'd finished the hot shower after he'd left, she felt better than she had in months - but when there is confidential work to be done...

"What are you doing?"

She looks up, exasperated. That is supposed to be her question, but she finds him openly craning his neck to read the files. 'Why bother?' she thinks with greater frustration. With Gibbs some things are just inevitable, he probably feels a measure of leeway is deserved after all he'd done - and she can actually use a bit of input. "Choosing a Deputy Director."

She has the satisfaction of seeing surprise on his face. It is a rare thing when she can surprise him. "I can use someone who can take the weight off, at least for a while."

"A while?"

"Tom Court in Maine is putting in for Retirement; effective the end of the year." She sits back. "Who would you choose?"

He reads the header of each page more openly this time. "Martine Joswig and Robert DiMarco." There are twelve Major Case Response Teams in the Headquarters Division. Joswig is Supervisory Special Agent in charge of a Team on Beta Shift, sixteen hundred until midnight. DiMarco is SSA of a team from Alpha Shift.

He is relieved to see his own name is not among those for consideration. They both know he'd have his own way of running things and they would not be Shepherd's - or any other PC-savvy Agent's. "They're both good," he grants unhesitatingly. "Bob's been SS longer than I have. I don't need to brief you on Marti." Joswig and Shepherd had been with Gibbs, two of the four hearsemen under Mike Franks. "Her gut is as good as mine.

"I'm sure she'd be glad to hear that. Which would you choose?"

"Bob's quick, sharp. Unlike you he doesn't play politics - which is probably why he's still SS but that can change. Marti ... since she's been SS her record's been impressive - and I do know she's promoted Kelman to Senior Field after swearing she'd never use one on her team. Is that related to this?"

"I doubt it. I've alerted neither of them. I started with five candidates - and no, you weren't among them–"

"That's a relief."

"–which is why I can talk openly with you. Which would you choose, DiMarco or Joswig?"

x

He considers the irony of taking orders from one of his old Probies - except that he does that already. Both the Agents have impressive records, each would make a fine choice, but he does have one 'reservation' he cannot resist voicing. "I don't know, Jen; _another_ woman running things?" He smiles at her aggravated glare. "Can I get back to you?"

"Take them with you," she slides the files an inch closer across the desk. "Let me know what you think tomorrow." With no other Agent would she consider this, but she trusts Gibbs' judgment as much as his impartiality - and his silence. "Now, what have you got on that Psychiatrist's murder?"

xxx

"All four bullets definitely came from the same gun," Abby announces to him after barely an hour's study in her lab. She turns down her music, rubs her eyes tiredly, visibly straining to keep them open. "The striations prove they were definitely fired from the same .35 mm handgun, automatic or maybe semi-automatic. For point-blank execution, this is definitely overkill." She takes the 'Caf-Pow!' he'd brought her and, dispensing with the straw, pops the top off and gulps half the large container in a single draw.

"Abby, are you all right?"

She puts the lid back on. "No, Gibbs, I'm _tired_!"

"Didn't you sleep last night?" He had taken her home yesterday in expectation that she would rest and she told him she had. She had gone to sleep almost the moment he'd helped her into her elevated coffin.

"I slept the sleep of the Undead - today I'm just _dead_. Can I knock off early?"

This request is odd enough to get his full attention. Occasionally, when she has a hinky mystery to excite her, she figuratively has to be dragged kicking and screaming from the lab. "Tell you what, get those blood tests and the fingerprint samples running - how long will they take?"

"About sixteen hours," she says, a moment later smothering a mighty yawn behind her hand.

"Well, you don't need to be here while they're running. Go home when they're set, report to me first thing in the morning."

She nods, has to work to bring her head back up again.

xxx

When he strides into the Autopsy Room, Gibbs finds the two Examiners, clad in green scrubs, faces covered by clear plastic masks, deep inside the open chest of Samuel Richards. The man's ribs had been sliced away and set into a plastic receptacle, Ducky is examining the inner organs while Jimmy holds the liver aside.

"Hello, Jethro. Care to assist?"

"I'll just watch this time," he replies, not caring for the man's macabre sense of humor. He's just left the Mysterious of the Dark, having managed to have a mundane session with her. "What have you got?"

"At the moment, Mr. Richards' left kidney," he glances up and favors Gibbs with a small smile, "but I expect you want answers as to how our unfortunate friend came to be on our table."

"Would be nice."

Ducky releases his grip on the man's inner organs, removes his latex gloves and tosses them into a waste receptacle at the foot of the table.

"Shall I bring these bullets up to Abby now?" Jimmy asks.

"If you would, my boy."

Jimmy gathers the materials as Ducky leads Gibbs to the lighted panels laden with over a dozen x-ray films.

x

"Doctor Richards was shot three times; the first bullet penetrated his lower back and perforated his left kidney, nicked the spine before coming to rest just short of exiting at the stomach."

"That was when he was trying to get out the window," Gibbs concludes. It is consistent with their theoretical reconstruction.

"The second bullet entered the right side of his body, fractured his fifth rib before being deflected past the heart. It lost much of its momentum in that collision, coming to rest in the upper lobe of the left lung. This did not immediately kill him, he might actually have survived for a short time even wounded as he was, and with medical attention might even have survived. The final bullet, however, penetrated his brain from a distance of less than one foot, exited through the back of the head to where Timothy dug it out of the floor, and that one was quite fatal."

"What about Rynager?"

"Well, her death was somewhat more merciful, if you can call the brutal snuffing out of lives in any way 'merciful'." He points to a spot on a representation of the woman's skull. "The bullet that penetrated the temporal lobe behind her left ear obliterated the medulla oblongata, which is that part of the brain which controls autonomic functions such as heartbeat, respiration and so forth, to exit through her neck

"While any wound to the brain is certainly serious, there have been cases of people surviving otherwise cataclysmic head wounds. I recall a case once where a man accidently had a spike driven with great force through his head and he subsequently recovered. But damage to that portion of the brain - that is a definite kill shot. The poor lady was quite likely dead before she struck the floor."

"What do you think, Duck, are we looking for a professional?"

Mallard considers the question carefully; his evaluation will go a long way in shaping the investigation to come. "You are looking for a killer with a sufficient knowledge of anatomy to know that destroying the medulla is definitely fatal, but who also tracked Doctor Richards across the room, firing at long and at point blank range before completing the job."

"Lee is of the opinion it's a woman."

Ducky pulls the plastic shield back over his face. He is not prepared to speculate on how she had reached that conclusion but "Any fool can pull a trigger."

xxx

As Gibbs walks into the bullpen McGee calls him over to his desk. "Boss, have a look at this." On the screen is a colored pie chart representing a mirror-image of the hard drive from the computer from the Psychiatrist's inner office; the computer itself is presently safe in the Evidence locker.

McGee indicates the image on his monitor, a red pie with a slice a third of the whole a bright blue. There are cryptic labels and numbers all about it.

"Don't make me ask what I'm looking at," Gibbs cautions the younger man after a second of silence.

"Sorry, boss, you're looking at a representation of the used and available space on Richards' hard drive. This is what anyone looking at the usage would see. Now, watch what happens when I set it to account for hidden directories." About ten seconds of rapid 'mousework' on other screens that pop up and down too fast for Gibbs to absorb their contents - something he really hates from the expert - and the left edge of the blue slice is replaced by a bright yellow wedge, amounting to about a tenth of the blue surface. The sizes of the other wedges adjust accordingly to this new revelation.

"That is an encrypted section of the hard drive. The files contained there are hidden, password protected and then _further _encrypted. I ran a decryption algorithm and got deeply enough in to retrieve a list of names of patients.

"Mary Joralemon and Sally Callahan MacDiamond are on that list along with fourteen other women. I've cross referenced with AFS and turned up three of them already as being wives of Servicemen, two from the Army and one Air Force."

He's interrupted by a soft 'ping' from his computer. He changes the feed to the monitor. "This makes number four. Catherine Harris is the wife of Coast Guard Lieutenant Sam Harris, stationed at–"

Gibbs doesn't care where Harris is stationed - yet. "Tony, Ziva, Michelle - Catherine Harris."

A few seconds later Michelle is on her feet. "Here, sir." She hands Gibbs an open file folder. He looks at the papers, the ten point print upon them, holds the folder as far away as he can, then hands it back sharply.

She does not need to be told twice, rapidly skims the file, "Catherine Harris, twenty seven, being treated for depression … eight months."

"The other three are also being treated for depression, feelings of alienation, loneliness, general dissatisfaction with their marriages," DiNozzo reports. "But there's no indication in the files that they are getting much better."

Another 'ping' interrupts them. "Number five. Betty Ann Brock, wife of Commander Albert Brock, serving on the USS Mississippi," Tim announces. He cross-references the Armed Forces Service record. "No, make that _served_. He was wounded in action, recuperating at home, scheduled to be returned to sea within the next two months."

"DiNozzo, seven wives, what do they have in common?"

He considers but doesn't say 'seven brothers. "Aside from seeing the same Shrink for depression, separation anxiety, dissatisfaction in their marriages, feelings of loneliness and abandonment, not a whole lot, boss."

"All right. DiNozzo, Ziva, Lee, look for anything in these women's pasts to link them other than Richards. McGee, keep working on that hidden thingy, let me know the instant you drain it dry." He heads for the stairs.

"Where can we reach you?" DiNozzo calls.

"I'll be with the Director - before she can call me in for another 'debriefing'."

The three, seeing DiNozzo's odd expression, look curiously at him after Gibbs is gone. "Don't ask."

xx

Gibbs' intent, rather than his stated purpose, is to see that his former partner now has something she can lay upon the SecNav's desk and have satisfaction in doing so. With the way these mysterious files seem to be spreading across the entire Service roster, it won't be–.

Getting off the elevator, he stops, pulls his cell phone from his pocket and punches in an unlisted number. After the third ring, a familiar voice acknowledges. /Colonel Mann./

"Gibbs. Anything weird happening in your office?"

There is a few seconds of silence; then the voice is cautious. /Define 'weird'./

"Murder/suicide - no reason."

The woman's voice is even more cautious; the Army CID Officer is not happy with strange cases but she is talking to one man whose aversion of them exceeds her own. /Yesterday, Lieutenant Barry Nelson from Andrews, his wife Anita comes into the bathroom while he's in the tub, turns on a radio that had been sitting on the shelf across the bathroom and tosses it in with him. While he's thrashing around, she jumps in. Their daughter Jessica, age 11, heard the commotion. By the time she thought of pulling the plug they're both gone. But the weirdness doesn't end there./

"Checking and savings drained minutes before?"

The reason behind his call becomes all too clear. /Credit cards maxed out./

"Money transferred to a numbered account in Switzerland."

/We'd better talk./

"Ya think? I'll call you back in five."

He turns, re-boarding the elevator. When he does report to Shepherd it will be with a much more complete picture.

x

A brief exchange by phone from his desk confirms everything they have in common. Though Army Criminal Investigation Division is not as far along, word of the 'shocking' end of Barry Nelson and his wife Anita having reached the Army Investigator's office only hours ago. Gibbs turns on his speaker phone. The coordination takes twenty minutes.

xxx

"You're gonna like this, boss," DiNozzo announces 45 minutes later. He doesn't wait for Gibbs to cross the bullpen before reporting that "up until the end of 2004 a graph of Sam Richards' bank accounts resembled an avalanche. He'd lost most of his clients, had to lay off his Secretary; not Rynager, a Catherine Walsh, who went to work for another Doctor at a 30 percent higher salary, and he was on the verge of closing down.

"He'd hung on quite a long time, but his rep in the psych business was bad and getting worse."

He brings up representations of bank statements onto the plasma screen. "Then, in October 2004 he starts paying off his outstanding debts across the board, by January oh five he's free and clear and he starts putting money in the bank. He somehow gets on the Military list of 'Recommended Practitioners' - I'm still working on that one–"

"Lee, now you are." "Thanks, Boss. He suddenly acquires a whole slew of new patients as a result. He hires LeeAnn Rynager who had originally come to him as a patient for - ya gotta love this - 'Compulsive Nymphomania'. She came to him on December 9, 04. His record shows she was discharged as a patient having made a full recovery on December 26 - same day as the Boxer Day tsunami if that's any significance - and went to work for him on the 29th."

"That alone should have made the Authorities pull his license," Ziva says bitingly.

"I'm reading from his files in that 'Secret pocket'. You'd be amazed how much this _doesn't_ resemble the paperwork."

"No I wouldn't, DiNozzo," Gibbs retorts. He had been suspicious of the kind of Doctor Richards was when he'd first met him. He hadn't believes a word that came out of the man's mouth, which is why he'd asked for the warrant. He turns to McGee, who is working a separate trail within the same hidden portion of Richards' computer. "Where'd that money come from?"

"Same place everyone else's has been going, Switzerland, same numbered account. And from what I can see a lot more has been going in than has been coming out."

"Ziva, any luck breaking the Swiss?"

"I am still working on my InterPol contacts. Unfortunately, at 5,000 miles away, I cannot work contact with their throats." The woman's voice carries only a small measure of her frustration.

"What about your secret source?"

Her 'secret informer' had lasted some time as such to everyone save Gibbs, the one person she had wasted time trying to keep the secret from. With Shepherd's old contacts from her days as a Field Agent coupled with the connections she had made since and finally with the secrets known only to the Director of NCIS (she'd inherited all of Morrow's), Jennifer Shepherd had amassed a formidable Information Network

"I have not heard back yet."

x

Not long ago Dr. John Carson had sold Top Secret information to an as-yet-unidentified buyer, payments being made through a Swiss bank account. NCIS had caught up with him but he had been commandeered by the US Army under the guise of that same 'Top Secret' provision.

They'd never managed to identify the source, the case had been closed by fiat and the Army had made it quite clear that the deaths in that case had been a 'regrettable inconvenience in the interests of National Security'.

So would the deaths of the NCIS team should they attempt to pry further into that secrecy.

However, they already know that the numbers of the accounts that financed Carson and had supported Richards are sequential. No one even _thinks_ the word coincidence.

Gibbs does not want anyone, not even Colonel Mann whom he had worked with before - on several levels - to know about their attempts to break the Army's lock-out on information in light of this unsettling connection with the Swiss. She would be obliged to support her Army superiors and he doesn't want to see where she would stand on divided loyalties.

x

"I want to see what Abby's turned up before she heads home. DiNozzo, McGee, with me."

As the Agents follow him to the elevator McGee, last in line and out of Gibbs sight, checks his watch. It is barely 2:45, long before Abby's quitting time. He decides he has better sense than to question this.

They enter the lab and halt, astonished. Abby is seated on the stool in front of her workstation, head down and cradled in her crossed arms, snoring softly. The three men range behind her, none able to credit the sight. Soft, soothing music plays from the speakers on the shelf over her head, a sharp contrast to her usual fare.

Gibbs is outraged. He had told her she could leave a little early _after_ she completed her assignment, not that she could sack out at her station! Looking at McGee, he nods sharply.

McGee shakes her shoulder. "Abby? Abby, wake up."

She blinks awake, straightens, turns to McGee and _slaps_ him hard enough to drive him back several steps. The _'crack'_ reverberates sharply off the walls.

x

"McGee!" she exclaims, astounded more than any of the men. She leaps from her stool and grasps the hand holding his stinging cheek.

"What did you do _that_ for?" he demands.

"I'm so _sorry_! I don't know what made me do that!"

"Neither do I," DiNozzo quips, "but I'd hate to have missed it."

Tim is about to respond with bite equal to the sharpness of the slap when Abby raises her hands peremptorily. "Don't say a word, any of you, just get Michelle and Ziva down here too." She turns to Gibbs. "I've just _solved_ the case!"

She turns back to her workstation, pulls on a pair of large headphones and plugs the jack into a socket on her tabletop. Her manner announces she's shut them all out. Gibbs, not certain how to respond to the astonishing woman and her warp nine conclusion, pulls out his cell phone.


	12. Suggestions

Chapter Twelve  
Suggestions

When Ziva and Michelle enter the lab from the elevator, they find Abby engrossed in her computer monitor, using the mouse to change certain curves upon the screen. Large headphones cover her ears; her entire manner announces that she is ignoring the three men ranged behind her.

Quite taken aback by this tableau, they seek answers from the men. Gibbs is enduring this odd situation, holding himself in patient check. DiNozzo grins as though in possession of some cherished knowledge while Tim's expression is a unique combination of curiosity and great annoyance. His left cheek bears a red imprint of a hand. From its size Ziva does not have to ask whose, though why would be nice to know. She looks to Michelle beside her, but the woman has no insights.

"What is happening?" Ziva asks Tim, the telephoned summons having been singularly uninformative. She stares at the red imprint on his cheek

"Abby slapped me."

"And _why_ did Abby slap you?" She tries to picture her lover doing something to provoke such a response, particularly in the presence of the other Agents. No image fits.

Abby's hand snaps up, stopping her. "Shhhh!" but then she reconsiders. "Actually, you and Michelle can say anything you want - the rest of you _Stifle_!"

Whatever Ziva would have said is lost to that astonishing command.

x

Abby pulls the headphones from her ears, sets them down and goes directly to Tim who backs away apprehensively. She takes his shoulders and kisses his cheek, a lingering touch. Ziva decides to give her ten seconds to explain this disrespectful display conducted directly in front of her.

"Better, Tim?" she asks, apologetically.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Good, because that's _all _you're _getting_," she snaps, turning away, but then she turns back. "Sorry."

"Abby." Gibbs' has reached the end of his patience.

"I'm sorry, but when Tim woke me - that yawnie music made me doze off - I saw him and I was overcome with an irresistible urge to–"

"Slap my face?" he asks, still annoyed.

"No, Tim, to snap your _neck_ like a dry twig. But since I'm always a happy and completely non-violent person, I settled for just slapping you."

"How do you feel now?" Gibbs asks, not even bothering to interpret the justification for that one. "Still want to slap him?"

"No, Gibbs, what I _really_ want to do is take the rifle I'm testing from the DeVre shooting and blow his _brains_ out!" She glances at McGee's astonished face, then significantly downward. "Actually, I'm thinking first of a more _satisfying_ target and I'd really appreciate it if you don't let me."

They can see no sarcasm on her face. She means every word of her outrageous threat.

x

"You can explain that?"

"I sure can." Her usual satisfied smile is back again as she pops the top of her CD player and pulls out the silver disk. "And the explanation is right _here_."

"Abby–"

"Gibbs, this comes from Richards, it belongs to Mary Joralemon but Sally Callahan-MacDiamond has one just like it. It was probably given to them as a 'sleep aid' - it worked wonders for _me_. I kept zoning out every time I listened to it, and you know how much I just _love_ yawnie music.

"_Under_ the music are some hinky suggestions. They don't come through when you're listening, you can't hear them, but your brain hears them. First off, there's the _suggestion_ scattered throughout to keep listening, to keep coming back. If record companies could find a way to make that legal they'd have more money than most countries. Come to think of it, they _do_ have more money than some countries..."

"_Abby_ –"

"All right, the point is the main suggestions involve things like resentment, dissatisfaction, hostility, jealousy, bitterness, all sorts of nice things. They're scattered all through the recording, along with instructions on how to solve all her problems, over and over, one thing building on another. They get worse and more intense as the music plays until, after a while, _kablowie_!"

"Abby, it's impossible to hypnotize someone into doing something against their natures," DiNozzo reminds her.

"Who told you that horse hocky-puck? The mind can be trained to do anything - _especially _if the inclination is already there. It's done every day. Universities call it sleep teaching, the Military calls it brainwashing, Madison Avenue calls it Advertising and shells out big bucks for it. Get the right person in the right mental condition - it helps if she's there to begin with, if she's coming to you because she's there to begin with. Then give her something to put her into a relaxed, receptive state and after a few weeks of constant exposure you can get her to do anything you please. Just build on it, night after night, keep her compulsively coming back for more, reinforce it with a little extra conditioning in the office, maybe some devious medications on the side. You can program her to do anything, including murder the one she loves."

She holds up the disk. "This one's programmed to have the one who hears it - on receiving a preset command - take a gun and blow out the brains of the one she loves."

"But you didn't blow my brains out," McGee reminds her.

"No, McGee, I'm still on resentment and anger, that's why I was able to hold myself to just slapping you. But if someone had given me the key command - which I'm still looking for - there's a huge amount of subliminal stuff on every disk - then nothing in the _world_ could stop me from getting a gun and finishing you - and myself - off."

The definite way she says this, as though it were a guaranteed outcome, makes it even more chilling.

x

"My theory is that both of them got the key command just prior to their following their programming. If you check their phone records, you'll probably find an incoming call."

"Witnesses say Sally MacDiamond took a cell phone call a few minutes before her husband was blown up," DiNozzo reminds them.

"And now, people, I am going to go into my office and try to figure out how to reverse this damn …" she catches the look in Gibbs' eyes "...age. Until then, Tim, you are _banned_ from this lab. I don't want to even _see_ you if we're not in a crowd."

"So you slapped McGeek because you love him?" DiNozzo cannot let it rest.

"Actually, Tony, I'm not too fond of _any_ of you men right about now - not even you, Gibbs - which is why I have to find a way to break this conditioning and why you're _all _banned from this Lab now. You want something more from me today, send Michelle."

"How long do you think it will take to break this conditioning?"

"I don't know, Gibbs, how long will it take you to get me the _raise _I've been asking for?" She throws up her hands defensively, "whoa - where'd that come from?"

"Offhand," DiNozzo replies, "I'd say that was resentment and frustration."

"All right - everybody out of here before I get the rifle."

Without another word Abby goes into her office. She picks up the remote control from her desk, points it at the sliding door and locks the portal.

The five Agents exchange looks. "Well, what are you standing around for? McGee, find that key-code thingy. You three, get on the line to everyone on that hidden list. _W__arn _them."

xxx

"Boss, I finally got all the records from the Joralemon, MacDiamond and Nelson phones," McGee reports nearly an hour later. Nelson had been the electrocuted Army officer. "The final incoming call they each received came from the same phone booth in Tenleytown, corner of Chesarlake and 45th NW. Richards' house is right up the street from that intersection."

"What do you want to bet," DiNozzo speculates, "that Richards didn't believe his programming was working and decided to test it?"

"No bet, DiNozzo, it fits right in with that head-shrunken shrink. He set them off prematurely - alerting us in the process - and his bosses took him out."

Before Gibbs can say anything more, Michelle Lee steps up to his desk. "Sir, Abby wanted me to give you this," she hands him a file folder. The Scientist had called a short while earlier to tell him that her fingerprint and ballistic analyses were ready for pick-up. While it is extremely inconvenient to work in this manner, it is far safer until she can break the conditioning the late Sam Richards had inflicted upon her.

Gibbs opens the file, smiling a secret, grateful smile to Abby, who had recently begun printing all her reports in 14 point type. The others might not note it, but for him it makes things far easier.

He just wishes the report had. "The fingerprints on the outer and inner doors of Richards' office match those of Migdalia 'Mad Mag' Rivera, a member of La Vida Mala. Ziva, look for her on the video surveillance of the lobby." Motion to his right catches his attention, he looks up to see DiNozzo on his feet and already gearing up. "Where are you going?"

The question brings the man to a sharp halt. "I figured you'd want her brought in."

"We'll get her," Gibbs answers with surprising calmness, continuing to read the report, waiting patiently for the next incoming one.

"Then you'd better bring Ducky with you." McGee says, not looking away from his own monitor.

"What have you got, McGee?" Gibbs asks mildly, already knowing the answer. It's the report he'd anticipated.

"Metro PD fished her body out of the Potomac three hours ago, one bullet to the back of the head."

"Get on to your pal at Metro," Gibbs directs DiNozzo; "get the details. If they found a gun, have Abby forward them her ballistics results."

This is something that, after satisfying his own curiosity, he'll hand over to Lt. Jeffrey Carpenter in Metro Homicide. The murder of a street gang soldier is not in NCIS's jurisdiction. He has spent considerable time and effort cultivating a relationship with the Police Lieutenant and wants to make certain it stays fresh. Additionally, it's fair, he'd taken this case away from the man and the solving of a double homicide which will also injure La Vida Mala makes a good consolation.

x

DiNozzo is taken aback at the expression on Gibbs' face as he closes the file. "You're not surprised?"

"She took out Richards and Rynager but left the computer for us. McGee told us she didn't access any file relevant to this case after shooting Rynager and Richards. If that weren't enough to aggravate her bosses, the first rule of small-time assassination is–"

"- kill the assassin." DiNozzo finishes.

xxx

That evening Siobhan O'Mallory, dressed in a light green blouse that accents her fiery red hair, sits in an overstuffed chair opposite Betty McFadden. She's only recently met te woman and is working to open herself up to her. She had seen her for the first time four days after narrowly avoiding death in the bombing of her apartment, this is only the third time they've been together. If not for the continuing nightmares and daytime panic attacks, she would have kept to her preferences and not sought help. But she is here and will try to make the best of keeping her own decision.

There are only two chairs in the room, other than the couch she prefers not to use. The window is shaded and turns the light a soft blue. Soft music plays barely audibly in the background, reinforcing a relaxing tone. Siobhan unconsciously runs a fingernail along her dark green skirt; she wants to conceal her emotions and reveals them all the more clearly.

"I sense there's a lot of tension in you, tension you are not opening up about," the blonde woman opposite her says. "If these sessions are to be helpful, it's important that you address issues, not bury them." She has a legal pad open upon her lap, making notes in as unobtrusive a manner as possible.

"I'm sorry, there's so much going on in my life lately that I can't deal with." She doesn't want to talk about it, but she's come here to talk. "I have this friend. And I'm frightened that he loves me."

"That's an interesting turn of phrase. Many people, if they thought someone was in love with them, would be happy. How do you feel?"

"How do I feel?" Siobhan wonders. Over the past few days she has given the question a great deal of thought and is no closer to an answer. "I honestly don't know."

"Come now. This man loves you, at least you believe he does. What's the first emotion you feel when you think that?"

"Pure terror," Siobhan confesses, feeling only slightly better for being able to say it.

"Why is that?"

"Because we loved each other before and it ended, years ago. I didn't think I'd ever lay eyes on him again. It was very hard to let him go." She doesn't want to feel this. She reminds herself again that she sought the woman's help - she couldn't talk to a man about this. Certainly she couldn't talk to George Donaldson.

"I went through Hell for months but I finally came to terms with it. He was gone – out of my life – and I needed to get on with my life if I was going to have the things I wanted. And then, suddenly, without warning, he fell back in. Now we work together. And I feel–"

x

"How?" McFadden asks into the silence.

"Conflicted." She tries to stop running her finger along her fiery red hair, a nervous reaction she does not want to give into. "Terrified." She clenches her hand, forces herself to keep it on her lap. The woman can read her fear easily enough without displaying it.

"I've been spending two years trying to get him to see me for myself, not for my outside – what I wear – or for my position with the Church. Then, the other day, he did and I _freaked_. It's all gone all wrong."

"Do you want him to love you?"

Faced with the bald question, Siobhan doesn't have an answer; at least not one that can be articulated.

"Do you want to love him?"

"I _can't_."

"Why not?"

"It's complicated," she evades, not entirely sure why. "He's in a relationship, he has commitments; _I_ have commitments, I–"

"Do you want to love him?"

The question comes back in the exact tone as before, as if Siobhan's groping protests had never been uttered.

"Ye... Nnn... I don't _know_!"

"All right," McFadden's tone plainly says they will come back to this later. She consults the pad on her lap. "In your first session you spoke of panic attacks, night terrors that keep you awake or interrupt your rest. How are you sleeping?" She had asked it earlier, at the beginning of the hour but does not believe she had gotten a truthful answer.

"I'm not," Siobhan admits, pressing her hand to her green skirted lap to keep it away from her hair. "I wake in the middle of the night from barely remembered nightmares, then just lay there for the rest of the night."

"Barely remembered?"

Siobhan looks anywhere in the room she can to avoid the woman's eyes. It had been shaded one bit light of a lie.

"My apartment blew up again last night," she admits, "but I was in it again."

"How did that make you feel?"

Siobhan is almost incredulous, but she tells herself she's not here to discuss how her logic knows she wasn't there last night and she's alive. "Terrified. I screamed myself awake. Ashamed. Humiliated."

"Why?"

"George Donaldson knocked on my door, asked if I was all right. He used to - at first - come in, now he just knocks to check. He knows I'm fine."

"Are you fine?"

"I'm not in a million pieces." She can't hold the smile. "No, I'm not fine. We both know it. George is dear, he never once complained but I know I'm ruining his sleep and he must be losing his patience with me."

"Is he?"

She thinks about it, warps through every conversation they'd had. "No, but he should be."

"Why do you feel that?"

"Well, I ..."

"Do you feel guilty?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I'm not –" She wants to say 'I'm not a child, I shouldn't have to be taken care of', but she knows that's not the issue. George isn't 'taking care' of her, he's supporting an adult who's been through a trauma.

"Is it that I can't deal - can't call for help?"

"Is it?"

"You know, you could give me–"

x

"I'm not here to give you answers, Reverend. I'm here to help you to find your own answers."

"Am I that screwed up?"

"I don't think so. I've treated soldiers and sailors who've been in combat. A bomb is a bomb whether it blows up a tank or an apartment."

"I can't fall asleep again," she says, answering the older question she'd evaded. "During the day, for no reason at all, my mind flashes back to my apartment, to the bombs and I _panic_. I try to hide it, hurry someplace where I can be alone... But I can't." She looks away, has to admit her deeper fear.

"I'm scared it'll happen at the Altar and I'll just fall apart in front of everyone."

x

"Your veneer of strength is very important to you." Even in three sessions McFadden has seen this - especially as, piece by piece, it falls away.

"It gets me through the hard times, the loss of friends, when I have to be the strong one. But I'm afraid I'm losing my strength. My armor is cracking."

"And perhaps letting the woman peek a little bit through?" Siobhan shrugs. "You wanted your friend to see you as a woman instead of a priest."

She looks away. "I don't want to go into that. I wanted him to see me as a woman _and _a priest."

"And what did he see you as?"

She shakes her head. "A woman."

"Not as both?"

"I don't know."

"What happened to let you know he saw you as other than a priest?"

She looks at everything in the room. There's hardly anything to look at. She finds a shadow in the corner. "He kissed me."

"And then?"

"And then I kissed him."

"How did it feel when he kissed you?"

"I don't know... Good, I guess... Like old times."

"Did it arouse you?"

Surprise - shocked outrage - forces her eyes back. "What do you–?" The look McFadden gives her makes Siobhan change her mind. She'd wanted to hide behind a façade she won't be allowed. "Yes."

McFadden doesn't press it. She's made her face the fact. "You've been removed far from your comfort zone." McFadden glances at the notepad. "You are a Church Curate, now you work for this Government Agency," she hunts for the reference, "this NCIS your boyfriend recruited you into–"

"He's not my _boyfriend_!"

"I'm sorry," McFadden consults her notes, "I was sure you said–"

"I said 'boyfriend'?" She's staggered.

"You did, in your first session."

"Oh _God_!" She hides her face.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to make you more uncomfortable."

"It's not your fault, Doctor." Nothing could make her more uncomfortable, after having kissed him in the park, than to accidentally slip and call Timmy her boyfriend. He was - nearly twenty years ago! What was she thinking? No, what _wasn't_ she thinking?

"I notice you try to avoid discussing him; yet his connection with you, and this NCIS, is very powerful. Have you explored your feelings - your emotions - in this?"

"I do _Not_ love him!"

x

"That is interesting."

"What's interesting?"

"You answer with such passion; and yet I used the term 'feelings'. You used the word 'love'. You said you think he loves you. _Does _he love you? Was that the reason he recruited you?"

Siobhan shakes her head, "I don't want to talk about this any longer."

"As you wish; I have no desire to press you and our hour is about up. I do, however, have something I can offer that may help with your sleeplessness."

"I don't like taking pills, if that's what you're thinking of prescribing."

McFadden smiles thinly, pushing herself up off the chair. "Hardly." She goes to a shelf, removing from it a thin, circular CD player. "I'd like you to try this for a week, just plug it in and put it under your pillow. This music is specially selected to help you relax. I've had quite a bit of success with patients who experience sleep deprivation such as you describe. It'll play continuously through the night, just turn it off in the morning. I expect it will help you sleep quite soundly. Next week I'll give you a different CD and we'll monitor your sleep patterns over the next few weeks. Is that okay with you?"

"I guess so. Thank you, Doctor," Siobhan says, taking the light machine. At this point she's quite ready to try anything that will allow even one night of sleep without the nightmares and panic attacks.

"You try this every night and when I see you again next Monday I'm sure that you will be seeing things quite differently."


	13. Epilogues

Epilogue One

It had taken most of Monday evening and well into the next day before all the potential victims of the plot – Richards' current or past patients – are warned of their danger. Gradually answers are found and by late afternoon Abby broke her confinement, entering the Squad Room and proclaiming herself cured. She, at least, no longer has a desire to blow Tim McGee's brains out. Whether there is still any lingering resentment is an entirely different matter, since she had been suffering with it for the entirely of the summer. However, doing too much brainwashing, even - or especially - of one's self is a very dangerous and costly thing.

However, with Ducky's assistance, she is finally confident enough to declare herself cured, and Gibbs trusts her enough to believe her assertion.

x

At two o'clock, in Director Shepherd's office, Gibbs explains the conclusions of his Agents to his former partner.

"This matter is all across the board," she tells him when he finishes. "I'm have to go to the CID, AFDI; this covers every branch, not even just the Army and Air Force."

"No argument there," Gibbs agrees. "The nearest we can figure is that Richards, prematurely testing what's certainly some terrorist weapon, set off three Sleepers."

The pun is almost painful, and clear evidence to Jennifer of the stress he has been under, particularly since Abby succumbed to the trap.

"We've already started the search for the executioner's executioner," he tells her, "but that'll take time. Sooner rather than later someone else will get him." Gibbs doesn't particularly care who breaks the case. It's enough for him that all the Armed Forces Criminal Investigation Agencies are sharing and coordinating information.

"When Abby's a hundred percent, she'll nail him. Until then, the FBI, CID and the others will just have to muddle through on their own."

Jenny can hardly repress a smile. Sometimes that is her conclusion as well.

"Everyone on Richards' secret list has been contacted," he continues, "So have all the Commands. We've gone through his public list as well, expanding to all other available teams. Anyone who has been given a CD for 'relaxation' will have it confiscated. The victims can't resist the compulsion to listen to them. Only the three we know about on the Secret list were set off. The ones we warned will see _legitimate_ shrinks, and most of the CD's are being turned over. Hollis Mann is heading Army CID, Marcosia for the Coast Guard, et cetera. We have some breathing room."

"Good." Experience has told her there is little reality in 'breathing room', but she'll take all she can get. The shoe will drop sooner or later – usually sooner.

"The problem is that," he continues, "from what we can tell, until they are activated the Sleepers behave normally. Then they receive a signal, get switched on and follow their programming; whatever it might be. Joralemon and MacDiamond were programmed to kill the ones they love and then themselves. Abby's working on breaking the codes on the other CDs as fast as they come in, her counterparts in Army CID and the others are doing the same."

He recalls Abby had not said codes, her explanation had involved fifteen syllable words driven at 'Caf-Pow!' fueled speed. 'Codes' is fine for Shepherd and himself.

x

"So what's the bad news?"

He knows where this comes from. No matter how bad things seem, there's always room for them to do to horrible. "We can't even be sure if Richards was working alone or if someone else might be passing out these killer CDs. There was no record in his secret computer thingy, he probably kept that in his head, if he ever knew." Gibbs considers the man would be a fool not to do so, but he had never held a high opinion of him as it was. In fact, he is someone Gibbs would consider it best to keep in the dark, so he's pretty sure the man's bosses did.

"I have everyone working on where that money came from, two sequential accounts funding Carson and Richards is no coincidence."

"I thought you banned the C-word," she reminds him with a wry smile.

"'Just because a king forbids his subjects to wear a crown doesn't mean he can't'."

"Then I guess that's it." Gibbs gets up, taking her tone for dismissal, ready to return to work. She is not finished, however, and stops him before he gets to the door. "Jethro, regarding this evening."

He's avoided thinking about it. "I don't know, Jenny. Dinner party?" He tries to keep the distaste out of his voice and _almost_ manages it. "There's _work_ to be done."

"Work will continue, you said that yourself. This is going to be top priority until we can be sure every one of these things gets rounded up. But your people have been on this since yesterday. There are over six hundred patients to go through and you're not going to finish this evening - or even tomorrow. We do have a Beta and a Gamma Shift, however." Her tone makes it clear that anything not wrapped up by quitting time, two hours away, can wait. The bulk of the work - and of the tension - is finished, and also barely begun. "At four o'clock, turn everything you have over to Martine Joswig and her team."

He stands for a moment by the door, thinking hard. Finally; "I'm not going to get out of this, am I?"

"I'll be ready at 6:00," she tells him with a smile, letting him know he'll be her escort. "Wear your best suit."

x

When he's gone, Jenny smiles. Gibbs had been the lone hold-out to Jimmy Palmer's invitations, and it was so unnecessary. That team downstairs, and those in Autopsy – and she and Cynthia – had all been through months of unrelenting and occasionally overwhelming pressure. They deserve an evening off. She knows she does.

And what is the point of being Director if she can't make sure that - once in a while - they get it?

Epilogue Two

Dinner at Ricardo's is everything Jimmy Palmer had assured his friends it would be. The restaurant is a heady mixture of elegant and homey, equipped with an elevated stage upon which various acts perform with introductions from the M.C. The food is excellent, the placement of their table even better – it extends directly out from the stage so the NCIS Agents have a front row center position. Several musicians are situated on the far left corner of the room to provide accompaniment to the various acts performing on the short, curtain backed stage.

Jimmy sits at the far end, facing the stage at the head of the table with Michelle at his left. Next to her down the line are Tim, Ziva, Tony with Abby closest to the stage, while opposite them are Ducky, Siobhan, Jethro, Jenny and Cynthia. Conversation is casual, the pressures of the job forgotten in an evening of convivial fellowship.

Jimmy, at the head, is clearly enjoying the evening and the company, and his pleasure rubs off on the others.

Michelle had begun the evening feeling apprehensive, and this increases as the evening continues. Jimmy seems to have forgotten, or to be ignoring, their understanding. He's making no effort at all, as he holds court at the head of the table, to disguise his attraction to her. In fact, he is quite open in his interest in her, and she doesn't know what to do. The people before her are trained observers, but a blind man could see past the sham of their secrecy. Gibbs and Abby know, they couldn't keep them from finding out, but if he isn't going to be more careful - or at least discreet, they'll all know before dessert.

However, everyone else seems to be paired off, so she reasons that if _she_ does not make a big deal out of the placements, they might get away with their secret intact.

The evening is pleasant, the entertainment next to them even more so, though the trend in music of the band on the stage beside them does seem to be toward romantic fare. However, looking at the couples scattered about the room, she decides it is appropriate and just decides to sit back and enjoy the evening.

Every course is a delight, the camaraderie memorable as the agents and associates can escape for an evening from the pressures of work.

Michelle does notice, however, that though Special Agent McGee pays appropriate attention to Officer David, his erstwhile 'date', his eyes as frequently light upon Reverend O'Mallory.

Every time they do, however, the Priest turns her attention elsewhere. But whenever McGee's attention is distracted elsewhere, such as on Officer David, he doesn't feel O'Mallory's eyes on him.

Thus goes the evening, filled with easy conversation and uneasy hidden and veiled glances. But for all Michelle can discern of what looks like a developing uncomfortable triangle, she's far more uncomfortable with Jimmy. His looks, his attention to her is neither veiled nor discreet. Maybe that's why she's attentive to the subtle interplay around her - she's doing anything she can to avoid her lover.

Finally - and not soon enough for her - after a sumptuous selection of deserts it comes time to settle the bill. Jimmy firmly reiterates his intent that each of them is his guest, that this is a special evening, and presents his credit card to the waiter, preventing anyone from protesting.

The conversations continue unabated; by tacit agreement they have been steering away from NCIS business, focusing on enjoying the entertainment and each other's company. But at the conclusion of a lovely blonde woman's contralto rendition of The Platters' 'Twilight Time' up on the stage beside them, they cannot miss the return of their waiter, who bends low to whisper something to Jimmy.

x

The smile on his face slowly fades as he looks down at his plate. But then it is back a moment later, false as a politician's promises. "Excuse me, I'll be right back," he says to them and gets up, not meeting any of their eyes as he turns and follows the man.

"Oh dear," Ducky's words reflect all their thoughts. Each of them has come to the same obvious conclusion and in the eyes of each the same thought is apparent. The issue of money is not considered, any one of them is fully capable of covering the bill, but they deeply regret being witness to their friend's obvious embarrassment.

While conversing quietly on the best way to resolve this minor problem without causing any _further_ embarrassment, they are inattentive to the words of the M.C. standing before the microphone on the raised platform beside them. He's introducing the next act as he had done several times already. The Agents ignore him, conversing in subdued voices.

x

"Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight it is our pleasure to present a unique talent." Four performers, two male and two female, enter through the curtain, taking places in pairs on either side of the stage as the MC continues. "He's been here twice before and is really talented. I'm sure you'll enjoy this. Please give a warm Ricardo's welcome to Mr. James Palmer!"

x

All at the table turn in astonishment as Jimmy steps through the curtain and to the microphone above them. The band begins a rapid and familiar classic rock beat while the backup singers provide the chorus accompanied with rhythmic clapping while Jimmy, with a wink and a wave, takes the astounding lead in the familiar song.

"He rocks in the tree-top all the day long, hoppin' and a boppin' and a singin' his song! All the little birds on J-Bird Street, love to hear the Robin go tweet-tweet-tweet! Rockin' Robin! Rockin' Robin! Go Rockin' Robin 'cause we're really gonna Rock tonight!"

Astonishment turns quickly to delight as reality catches up with them. Michelle, vastly enthused, is the first one to pick up the clapping beat, followed a moment later by Abby, several of the women beginning to dance in their seats.

"Every little swallow, every chickadee, every little bird in the tall oak tree; the wise old owl, the big black crow, flappin' their wings singing 'Go, bird, go!', Rockin' Robin!"

At the bridge, one of the accompanying men on the side of the stage pulling out a flute and keeping the rhythm flowing, Michelle is unable to restrain herself. Rising in place and dancing uninhibitedly to the beat, her action is a signal as Abby gets up to join her, followed a moment later by Siobhan, each of the women in turn joining in the joyous celebration. Jennifer and Cynthia indulge in a hip-bump. The men are considerably less demonstrative yet enjoy the delight of their fellows.

"A pretty little raven at the bird's first dance, taught him how to do the bop and it was grand; they started goin' steady and bless my soul…"

The longer it goes on, the more enthusiastic the response becomes, all at the head table immensely enjoying themselves according to their natures, from restrained to ebullient. At the finale the final 'tweedles' and sexy whistle of the backup singers sparks the loudest and most enthusiastic applause of the evening, not surprisingly led by the head table.

But after Jimmy takes his bows, he looks out over the assembled patrons, reveling in the moment.

x

"Tonight I'd like to ask for the help of a good friend in singing a very special duet. She's done it before and is simply wonderful." He looks down at the head table. "'Chelle, would you come up here with me?"

Michelle falls back into her seat, her mouth open. She can't believe he'd said it as she feels the planet drop out from beneath her. _What_? Go up _there_? Is he _out_ of his _mind_?

"She's a little shy. How about some help?"

The audience obligingly applauds as McGee helps her to stand, urging her on. Michelle wants to faint, to have the floor open up and swallow her. Her heart is suddenly pounding so hard in her chest it hurts! Abby's up and pushing her. She has no idea how - or _why_ - she gets up the side steps to the stage, except that she knows the audience – and her friends – won't stop applauding until she does.

As she approaches Jimmy on shaking legs, one of the back-up singers, just leaving with his fellows, puts his microphone into her hand. She holds it low to her side, grabs Jimmy's and forces it down as well, only just managing to keep a smile frozen on her face and her voice muffled to a frantic whisper. "What are you _doing_?"

"Come on, honey, you'll be great," he assures her under the continued applause. "This is the dream you told me about. Your dream to get up on stage and surprise everybody."

"I'm gonna _kill_ you!" she whispers, unable to believe the nightmare. "That was a _fantasy_! Ice Queen, _remember_?"

"Come on. 'Tonight I celebrate my love for you'. You and I have done it plenty of times–"

"In your _living_ _room_ - to a _CD_! You're not Peabo and I'm not _Roberta_!"

"Trust yourself. Just close your eyes and go with it." Then the music is playing - without anyone to sing along with - and she's _trapped_. She wants to run, to hide, to _punch_ him - but she barely raises her microphone in time to make her cue.

x

"Tonight, I celebrate my love for you. It seems the natural thing to do,"

"Tonight, no one's gonna find us. We'll leave the world behind us,"

"_When I make love to you_…" they sing in chorus, and for the first time Michelle can say those words aloud, in front of people; suddenly it seems right and good.

Amazingly, her voice does not warble all over the scale. She'd thought she'd have to force herself to forget the crowd, forget her friends out there before her, forget _everything._

She finds, however, that she can concentrate only on the words, the feelings behind them, when she focuses _only_ on the love she has for this man with her.

"_Tonight, I celebrate my love for you; and that Midnight Star__,__ it's gonna come shining through_…"

"Tonight," he promises her, "there'll be no distance between us,"

"What I love most to do," she answers, "is to get close to you…tonight."

They share verses and phrases as always, joining and complimenting one another's lines and as she gets into the music. She finds she actually _can_ forget where she is when she concentrates _only_ on the man before her. She realizes her terror has vanished, replaced by something better.

"Tonight I celebrate my love for you," she tells him, "and soon this old world will seem brand new,"

"Tonight, we will both discover, how friends turn into lovers,"

"_When I make love to you_…" they continue, as they always had, when it had been best between them...

x

When it's over Michelle can't _believe_ it's happened - it's a dream that could not have happened, but it did. The enthusiastic applause fills the restaurant and with his hand on her arm Jimmy urges her to take a step forward to take her accolades.

She curtsies to the audience - but the expressions on the faces of her friends at the table before her turn odd as the applause dies away. Everyone's eyes reflect renewed surprise, not emotion she'd expected to see in their eyes.

She realizes they're not looking at her, they are looking _past_ her.

She turns, even more surprised to find Jimmy on his right knee, raising in both hands a small black box. With one hand he lifts the lid. She gasps when she sees the silver band and clear gem sparkling in the lights.

"'Chelle," he asks, still holding the microphone; his voice fills the restaurant, "will you marry me?"

x

Mouth covered by both hands to contain an astonished scream she's unable to utter, she stands mute, the universe enshrouded in utter silence. The world stopped. Silence fills the galaxy. Her heart drums in her ears. Her eyes can't grow any wider.

She tries to answer, but nothing will come out.

She tries again.

She tries a third time before she can force the tiniest whisper: "_Yes_!"

x

He reaches out, takes her left hand and with his other he pulls the ring free of its slot with a practiced motion. He slips the slim band onto her finger and the restaurant explodes in thunderous applause.

_Fin_.

Next episode: 'Elf Lord'.  
Gibbs and the rest of the team frequently refer to Tim McGee as 'Elf Lord', with varying degrees of affection or ridicule. Now they find that some Elves, like some Leprechauns, are best left alone.


End file.
